Eileen on You
by fieldandfountain
Summary: When Klokateer pilot Regan loses her leg in a Dethcopter accident, she strikes a bargain and finds an unlikely friend in William Murderface. A look into what it really means to be a female Klokateer. Takes place around the bet between Skwisgaar and Murderface in Fertilityklok. Murderface/OC. Oh, and Charles gets some too...
1. Dethcopter

Eileen. It was a nice enough name in itself, in fact it was the name of her old Irish Gran. But it wasn't her name, not really- it was a joke, a joke for children or child-like men. She tried to stifle the old one in the depths of her memory though it would bear its head from time to time. It was her duty to suppress it though it made its way through from time to time. Regan. Regan Burke.

Regan had a cushy job as a Klokateer, piloting Dethkopter 5 and managing its repairs. It was no easy feat to get work at Mordhaus, but not exactly a peach of job either, considering that a grizzly death was a constant possibility.

The Klokateers, though from varied backgrounds, had a great deal in common. Many of them, like Regan, were latchkey kids from poor families who craved order and a good paycheck. They were hard to phase and disciplined, but most of all strictly loyal to the entity that was Dethklok. Regan couldn't put her finger on what drew all of them so fiercely to the band. Their music had a hypnotic effect, compared to the most powerful drugs in the world, and even the euphoria of falling in love. It could be seen in the populous, with their violent desire to watch their idols and shed their blood for them.

She touched the stroked the gear brand on the back of her neck. It had a different effect on everyone's skin, and on hers it rose gently, and felt, even in its brutality and persisting heat, something like a flower.

The female Klokateers made up a fraction of the total- ten percent maximum. Ofdensen had said they were too distracting to the band. Then why did he choose the good-looking ones? Regan wasn't perfect- she had a square face and deep eye sockets that made her always look hungry, even though she was strong. But she had full lips, thick hair, and her figure was good, which was enough when she spent half of her day under a hood.

It was a nice feeling to work for the most powerful band in existence, even if at times Mordhaus was a bit of dictatorship, with some of the craziest bastards that ever lived at the helm. And Regan was clear headed and self assured- Ofdenson ruled out the weak ones, and quick. Though she often faced death, she didn't dwell on it. Until of course, that day.

It had been a chilly, gray afternoon, and calm. Dethklok had been out on one of their golfing excursions, if they could be called that when rumor had it they spend the whole time binge drinking and chasing each other with the clubs. A breeze had picked up and Explosion had complained about the cold, so dethcopter 5 was dispatched to pick up the band. Regan rarely had dealing with the band. Her duties were usually the mundane, picking booze, cheese snacks, and firecrackers from the nearby Finntrolls. But their regular pilot was off duty for repairs after the band had taken drunken glee in smashing everything in Dethkopter One. It should have been a warning to her, but she took on the task with some pride. She even, as she remembered wryly, had adjusted her hair, even though the hood would cover it.

The band was escorted inside and they behaved themselves, for the most part. But the soft breeze quickly turned to a windstorm, and the dethkopter had nearly toppled, damaging the main rotors. The band made it safely home, and Regan was forced in the high winds for repairs. It didn't phase her. She had been out dozens of times on similar jobs.

There was one unfortunate detail. It was a dethcopter after all and the blades were sharp as a razor's edge. She crawled gingerly to the top of the copter and surveyed the damage on the main rotor and the radar dome. They were both in bad repair. She called a team of klokateer mechanics to hold the huge blades still while she tweaked the wiring.

It was tedious work, made worse by a gentle rain that rendered the surface of the copter sleek and wet. At any other workplace she could have asked for a tent, or anything for shelter, but not here. She had to face it head-on, and she nodded to herself. The wind picked up and the muscles in the locaters' arms tensed as they held fast to the blade. The gale grew fiercer, and Regan's jaw dropped as several of them toppled over. The others shrieked as the blade burst free, taking the tips of their fingers with it.

The blades went rogue, spinning faster and faster around her. She gaped at the death machine below her and struggled to balance on the radar dome, but she never stood a chance. Her body tumbled from the slick surface. As she fell, a jolt like ice slithered up her body and she knew she was done for.


	2. Aftermath

When she woke up in the St. Necrophagist hospital, she was laughing hysterically. She had been given another chance. But for what? It would have been better to go down in blood and glory, like a true Klokateer. All she had was a leg sliced clean below the knee.

But she was steadfast and loyal, and realized that she could have had her face burnt slowly off or her heart impaled and ripped out, or live like that ghoul of a French chef, torn up and sewn back together. She had it easy, and was back at work within the month. Perhaps she could have been content, but it felt like so much had been taken from her.

She was a little indignant at the wooden peg-leg they had given her. You would think that a band so world renowned as metal would have it in abundance. But no, polished oak like some second-rate pirate. And more, the crude appendage meant she did not have the sensitivity to man the highly sophisticated Dethcopters. Ofdensen had been politic about it, saying that after such a harrowing experience, of course she would want to work a desk job, designing and overseeing Dethcopter innovations. You didn't talk back to the CFO, so there she was, tapping away at her keyboard in the female online department. It was a highly respected job, but it left her stir-crazy.

Days after her return to work, she received another summons from Ofdenson. She had been the only female Dethkopter pilot and her gory accident attracted their interest. Her heart swelled- to be in the presence of the masters was an honor. Yes, she was a little irritated with the way things had been handled, and could suggest quite a few changes in workplace ethics, but she was after all a Klokateer, and had been drilled from day one to worship Dethklok above all else.

She pulled back her light brown hair and braided it so it would form a clean outline under her black hood. She looked down at the peg leg with a little grimace. She didn't quite have the knack for walking on it yet, and it tended to buckle under her knee joint. She tightened the fasteners around her thigh, even though it hurt her a little.

Ofdenson stood at the entrance to the rec room. "Boys, I'd like you meet Regan Burke. She's the Klokateer who lost her leg in the dethcopter accident. I hope you'll be on your best behavior."

"What?" Said Nathan. "We're always on our best behavior!"

"Yeah, we ams perfect gentlemans!" said Skwisgaar.

"What I mean is, don't say anything will get us sued." He ushered her in. She walked in, slightly mortified by the loud clacking of her leg on the red marble floor.

"Good day, my lords," she said. She lifted up her shoulders and clenched her fists to appear stronger.

"Dude," said Pickles, already on this second bottle of premium vodka. "What happened to yer leg?"

"Pickles," growled Nathan in the what had to be the loudest whisper ever. "We're not supposed to embarrass the lady!"

He then turned to Regan. "I saw you in the hospital. There was like, blood gushing everywhere! It was the most brutal thing ever!"

"You were there, my Lord?" asked Regan, a little surprised, a little disgusted, but pleased nonetheless.

"We all weres!" said Toki. "And I got these totallys awesomes stickers!" He held up a long scroll of stickers with various blood-soaked animals. Each one read 'I gave blood!'

"Toki!" cried Murderface. "You have to give one to the lady. She's the one who gave blood, not you."

"Yeah, "said Nathan. "Hand it over."

"Yeah," said Toki, sadly, bending his head. "I suppose yous guys ams right."

"No, my lord, it's ok," said Regan as Toki came near her with the stickers. "I didn't actually choose to…" But it was too late. She was covered in stickers before she finished.

"Ok baby," said Murderface ," Why don't you take off that mashk and show us some shweet shtuff."

Sighing, she removed her hood. She had nothing on their best groupies, but was glad she had done a little with her eyes that day. She would have liked to smile- it was her best feature- but she would have felt like a grinning monkey on display.

They shrugged. She was nice, but nothing special. Toki knelt down eagerly and poked at her leg. "Is this for reals?"

"Yes Tok- I mean, my Lord." He was younger than she was, and seemed so childish. It was hard not to call him by his name.

"It ams a peg," said Skwisgaar, snorting. "Do they call you Pegs?"

The whole band burst into laughter. Regan's face flamed.

"Or Eileen?" said Murderface. "Get it, guysh? I LEAN!"

The band's laughter doubled up on itself.

Regan bit her lip to keep from grimacing. She had heard that one before. But she had to keep up appearances and forced a laugh.

"That should be yours officials names," said Skwisgaar. "Change your names to Eileen."

Regan had trouble disguising the disgust in her face. This was Dethklok she was dealing with. They could be joking- or deadly serious.

"Do you mean it, my Lord?" she asked cautiously.

"Totally!" said Nathan. "It would be.." he snorted. "Brutal."

She still didn't want to accept it. "Is that an order?"

"Yes!" "Ja!" They all shouted, and laughed again.

"Uh, Thanks for stopping by," said Nathan. "And for your employee loyalty and stuff." He handed her a card.

Five dollars off at Hot Topic.

Her face was burning. She tossed on her hood and gritted her teeth. So. She was Eileen now. Eileen Burke. They were Dethklok, they could do what they wanted, even if a voice inside of her was saying that perhaps they weren't always right.


	3. Murderface in Action

The Eileen joke had made the rounds. She had always had a good relationship with the other female klokateers, but now there was a feeling in the air that her time was numbered. True, most of them had injuries of their own, but they were minor. The truly mutilated, male or female, didn't tend to last. Greta, one of the online specialists, had openly mocked her, limping on the floor in an exaggerated gesture. Eileen had decked her and left her missing a tooth and groaning on the floor. It had surprised the other klokateers, who had known her to be a good sport, and tough. After that, the others did speak to her as much but there was the lingering sensation that they were laughing at her, and she feared for her job.

One morning she walked into the female online division, only to hear a loud peal of laughter. Her face hardened over and she braced herself. But it wasn't about her- it was some Dethklok gossip. Supposedly Skwisgaar and Murderface were competing to have sex with as many women as possible. Skwisgaar was a favorite among the women, except for those with a preference for Toki's cuteness, or the sheer metal quality of Nathan. Some were even charmed by Pickles and his drunken antics, but Murderface- he was the Mordhaus joke.

Eileen had never really thought about it. She liked them all in a certain way, in spite of recent events. But she was pragmatic, and knew none of them would seriously consider her. It would be nice to have a guy around- if only some of the male Klokateers would take of their hoods once in a while. She wasn't going to sleep with an executioner, metal or no. And what outsider wanted to settle down with a woman who could be blown to smithereens within a moment's notice? And now- this leg. She had forgotten her lost leg, and her new name, and the possibility of being ousted from her job. She looked down at the computer drawings she had generated. She was going to work harder than ever, and design the most brutal dethcopter in existence. And more than that, she was designing something personal, something for herself.

But in a way, she was rooting for Murderface. Sure he had first called her Eileen, but that was only a joke. It was Skwisgaar who forced it on her as her official name. The more the klokateers mocked him, the more of a kinship she felt with him. They were both freaks in their own way. There no way in hell Murderface was going to win the bet, but she hoped he didn't come of it too humiliated.

She didn't have to wait long to see him again.

"Hello everybody! Shurprise inshpection!" he called out, bursting into the female online services room. They all ignored him, though Eileen cracked a smile under her hood.

Murderface strolled toward her co-worker Leila and Eileen couldn't look away. Leila didn't put up with any bullshit. Next thing she knew, Murderface's eyes were filled with pepper spray and he was rolling on the floor. They all were grinning under their hoods, and the braver ones were laughing. He deserved everything he got, but Eileen hobbled over to him.

"Let's get you out of here," she said, a note of humor in her voice. "There's a wash station at the other end of the hall."

He stopped screaming momentarily, but his eyes were glued shut.

"Who are you, baby?" he asked as she lifted him up and directed him to the safety station. "Maybe want… to come ….over to my placsh…. later?" he asked between gasps. Eileen looked on in utter astonishment. She had been exposed to pepper spray in her training, and it took the average person half an hour to simply stop writhing in pain. And here he was, hitting on her.

"Eileen," she said wryly "You named me."

"Whaaaa?" He said, as she set up the wash station and bent his head over to wash his eyes. "I remember you." He chuckled even while sobbing. "I- LEAN" he said. "Because…you…only….have…one…leg…"

She rolled her eyes and turned around. The bastard would have to fend for himself.

"Hey!" he called after her. "Lishen! Invitashun's open!" He screamed again. I'm not such a bad guy! Come over, anytime!"

Eileen shook her head but laughed. Murderface fumbled through his pocket and dug out what appeared to be a business card. There was his name and number, and a photo of him lying face-up on a pillow with a rose in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face. If you tilted it his usual shorts and t shirt were replaced with a bow-tie and speedo. And of course, six pack abs. "Call me- anytime," it read on the bottom.

"That might prove ushful, I-LEAN" he said, trying to wink, though his eyes were swollen shut.

Eileen wrinkled her nose, but her heart was racing. She might have a use for this card, a use that would change her life, but not in the way that he expected.

"Thank you, William," she said, using the name he hated almost as much she hated hers. He opened his bloodshot eyes in protest, and then shut them in agony, yelling, "Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!

Her heart raced as she sat in her bedroom that night, fumbling with the card. She liked her room, its heavy red curtains and the stark simplicity of black with metal accents. She had grown up in relative squalor, and here she had a place to herself where she could mull over her thoughts. She wanted to help him, and she had a deal to strike with him. But did she dare to call up one of the masters, even the goofiest one by far? How would she handle it if he turned her down, mocked her even? But she had to take that chance. She held her breath and dialed the number.


	4. Likes a Fairy Tales

Murderface was scrolling through the telephone book when he received the call. Not a single woman had agreed to have sex with him. He sighed, the air whistling through the gap in his teeth. Perhaps he could have been more politic. He could have something a little sweeter than "Would you like to fuck me? I'm a billionaire!" But girls liked dirty talk, and they liked billionaires. Every one knew that.

When his dethphone began to rattle, he scrambled over himself, nearly cutting his fingers on the jagged edges. "Hey, schweetheart," he answered.

"Um," the voice on the other line hesitated. "Mr. Murderface?"

"Sho I schee you've come around," he said, growling gently. "Would you like to come over and make some schweet love?"

"Do you have any idea who this is?"

Murderface was trapped. "Uhhhh….," he answered. She could be any one of the3,278 women he had contacted that day. But he had to play it safe- no need to piss her off when he had come this far.

"Of coursh, darling. Come by at 11- I'll have my shervants escort you in."

"Well, I-"

"Wear shomething shexy, ok, babe? Toodaloo!"

The phone went dead. Eileen stared at it. She didn't let her get a word in- how in God's name was she going to let him know what she had in mind? She didn't like the idea of doing it person. But you didn't just walk up to Dethklok unless you wanted to be obliterated by their bodyguards. This was her only chance.

_Wear something sexy_. She hadn't really thought of that side of herself since the accident. She didn't want to turn him on, but she was proud and she wanted to appear presentable. She ran a brush through her hair, and shifted her bangs to the side.

It wouldn't be wise to show up as a Klokateer. She didn't want him thinking of her as his servant- if she was to bargain with him, they had to be equals. But her closet was so sparse-she devoted most of her time to work and it was jammed with the Klokateer uniform, black muscle tees and skinny jeans. There were two skirts, but they both showed her legs. Eileen frowned. No, she had to hide that part of herself now. So that left- and she looked the corner of her closet.

_No_. She couldn't possibly. But it was the only option left to her- a long satin gown in pale green, with lace at the bust, rhinestone embellishments swirling down the hips. How did she come by such a thing?

Her cousin Jenna had forced it on her. Jenna had always wanted her to be more feminine. Tinkering with motorcycles was a lame enough hobby, but Regan could at least do something with her looks. "You could be so pretty, if you only tried," she had said. And when Jenna had died in a car-crash, she didn't have the heart to toss it. It was literally a homecoming dress, and a decade out of date. Yes, it would cover her legs but she would look, well, ridiculous.

And then she thought of Murderface. She lifted up the card he had given her and turned it in the light. There he was, with his silver bowtie and his Photoshopped body stretched over the bed. He was ridiculous personified. "Fuck it," she said aloud, and slipped into the dress.

It changed her, perhaps for the better. She didn't look as tough, but when you lived a life as brutal as hers, you could do with a little softening . She spent a minute touching up her eyes and slipped out. Now if only she could creep into Murderface's room unnoticed.

No such luck.

She made it past the Klokateers guards easily. "I'm here to see…Murderface." she said.

"Yes, Madam," they said. "Lord Murderface is expecting you." They didn't recognize her, and she was grateful. They led her in the direction of the rec room. Would he be there? Would all of them be there- expecting her?

"Wait a moment," said Eileen as they reached for the metal doors. She ran her fingers through her hair, and wanted desperately to adjust her peg leg. It never seemed to fit her right. But she didn't want the guards to notice.

She took a deep breath. "Go ahead." The doors were opened for her.

The entire band, sans Murderfierce, sat in the hot tub gaping at her.

"Well hello pretty lady," said Pickles, lifting his beer to her. "Care to join me?" he asked, splashing the water with his hand.

"PICKLES!" growled Nathan. "That's Murderface's date. Don't cockblock." He turned to Eileen. "But seriously, you can join us if you want."

It was Toki who pointed out her peg leg. "Look, it's Eileens! How ares ya, Eileens?"

"I'm fine, Lord Toki." She didn't like being on display like this.

"Oh, well that explains it!" said Skwisgaar. "The lady with the pegs legs, come to fuck Murderface."

"Skwisgaar!" said Toki, his face going red. "Nah, Eileens, look at yous! Ams just like a princess!"

It was sweet, and it calmed her, but she had to say something. "I'm not here to fuck anyone."

"See even the one legs ladys won't fuck Murderface." Skwisgaar chuckled.

"I didn't say I wouldn't fuck him!" she cried, and the whole band looked at her in alarm. She softened her tone. "I only meant that, I don't know-"

And Murderface burst into the room, interrupting her. They looked at each other in utter awe.

Their outfits were coordinated to the slightest detail. He was wearing a satin suit in sea-foam green, the exact fabric and shade as her gown. The buttons were glittering rhinestones, and there was lace at his collar and cuffs. His tie, with rhinestone swirls and awkward strips of lace, looked like a craft store had thrown up on it.

He looked her up and down, and she looked him up at down. He smiled, and she couldn't help smiling herself.

"It ams like a fairys tale!" cried Toki. "You's found your ladymates, Moidaface, jus like me!" The dating agency had found a match for Toki that evening.

Murderface looked at her, his face warm with pleasure. She had big tits and all that good stuff, and he had to admit- her face was nice. It looked familiar, and unlike the faces of all the assholes he had met throughout his life, that was a good thing. She wasn't judging him, and it put him at ease, though he was sweating under his starched collar and couldn't resist the urge to pull at it and grunt. He whistled a little the outline of her full hips and then- what was that? Peeking out from under her dress, the peg-leg.

"Isch you!" he said. His eyes bugged out more than usual.

"Yes." She pulled back her leg. "Who did you think it was?"

He was tilting his head, still focusing at her feet, and his lips seemed to curl, as though in disgust. She felt herself sinking, but no. She wouldn't let it hurt her. She laughed aloud, at their matching outfits, at the lace at his neck that made him look like a Renn faire reject, at the fucked-up situation she had found herself in.

And Murderface looked up at her, straight into her eyes, and laughed back. In fact, the whole band was laughing. She turned back to look at them, and she was startled when Murderface snatched her wrist and pulled her toward his room.


	5. Dragontits

_Very special thanks to Misty Day! It's so nice to have someone read and review my Murderface fic, and your review today encouraged me to whip up a new chapter._

* * *

Murderface led Eileen down the hallway.

"Could you slow down a bit?" she asked. She couldn't move so quickly with her wooden leg.

Murderface stopped, folded his arms, and frowned. The band was always pushing him around and making him do things he didn't like, like play the bass. And Charles made him do lame stuff like show up for meetings. When it came to everyone else, he liked to do the _opposite_ of what they wanted, unless there was endorsement money involved. _Do something_ for _someone else _for _no reason_? It seemed inconceivable and he stopped to scratch his bushy head.

"Hmmmm…." He said. "Hmmmm…"

"Is something wrong?" Eileen asked, touching his shoulder. He looked up at her, at her expression of confusion and concern, and felt pleasantly warm at her touch.

Maybe he could walk just a _little_ slower.

"Thish way, my lady," he said, taking her arm.

Eileen laughed. It was actually fun to be walking arm in arm with a member of the most famous band in existence. When she thought about, she and her co-workers had slaved for Dethklok, starved and died for Dethklok, and here she was with one of them. Of course, no one _really _thought about William Murderface when they thought of the band. He kind of disappeared into the shadows. Still, it was something. She only worried what would happen when they made it to his chamber.

"I had my shervants decorate, scheshpiffically for you, babe." Eileen smiled dimly. She had heard that Murderface's room could be _nasty_, and one thing she didn't like was squalor- she had grown up with too much of it.

Inside it was surprisingly orderly, probably thanks to the Klokateers. It resembled an artillery room, with canons lining the stone walls. There were rifles, swords, and flags everywhere, and a few more sinister items from an earlier age: a Judas cradle, a rack, and an iron maiden. Everyone knew that Murderface was a collector and what could she say? It was pretty damned metal.

But there were some pretty strange details- the giant bed had red silk sheets with pink stripes and there were twenty or so vases filled with roses. There were several scented candles-black of course- and an even an incense burner. What surprised her most was the music- it sounded like sitars, Indian classical music.

"Ahh! Home schweet home," said Murderface, stretching out his arms. He handed her a glass, and proceeded to fill it with coconut water.

"I know you ladiesh love thish shtuff," he said.

Eileen raised her eyebrows, took a sip and nodded politely.

"What's up with the music?" she asked.

"Oh, you know, I've been exshploring my myshtical side,"he said, grabbing his hips and bending back a little. "Like yoga. Shit like that. Tantraaaa," he whispered in her ear. His mustache tickled her ear, and she pulled away, laughing.

"I heard you were done with religion," she said.

"Thish isn't religion," he whispered. "Thish is _shpirituality_. Now watsch thish!"

He pulled out a black yoga mat printed with bloody corpses and rolled it on the floor. He lifted up his arms while taking in a deep breath through his prodigious nostrils, and bent forward at the waist. All the rhinestones popped from his jacket and hit the floor like ricocheting bullets.

"Ahhhh," he said. He had only managed to bend several inches over. Suddenly, his eyes bugged from his head. "AHHH! I'm SHTUCK! HELP!"

Eileen dropped her glass and rushed over.

"Put your hands on my back," she said, kneeling down.

"I c-can't."

"Just do it, goddamnit!" She said, surprising herself. She hadn't given orders since she had a crew of Klokateers at her command while repairing Dethkopter 5.

Groaning deeply, he rested one hand on her shoulder, then the other. It was an enormous strain on her bad leg, but she kept her balance, and lifted him upright. When she turned around, he simply shifted his hands so they remained on her shoulder. His mouth was quivering.

"You shaved my life!" he said.

"No, really, I didn't!" she said.

"No, I thought-" he gasped. "I …was…. going... to die down there."

"Well, you're alright now, buddy," she said, patting his helmet of hair. It was softer than she had expected, and she smiled.

"To be completely honesht, this shit is all a little new to me," he said, chuckling.

"Really?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have thought."

"It'sch only that I had a mashter come by and teach me come tricksh today. I thought I'd meet a nicsh lady like you. But that one was exshtra exshtra hard."

Eileen laughed. "It's a pretty brutal move."

"But I have something shpecial I want to show you."

He took her hand, and she pulled away reflexively. "No, no, we've got to talk about something first."

He frowned, and looked genuinely disappointed. "Pleash, Regan?" he asked.

She stared at him, startled. He was the last person in Dethklok she would have expected to remember her real name.

"You know my name?" she asked.

"Of coursh," he said, shrugging. "They shaid it in the hoshpital."

A feeling of warmth flooded over her. "But you all said I had to be Eileen."

That feeling nearly faded when he chuckled briefly. "I-LEAN." But he put his arm around her. "It wasch only a joke, baby."

"But it was an order…"

Murderface's brow clouded over. "Well fuck, them. Fuck those fucking fuckers. Lischen to me, as the shongwriter for Dethklok-" he lifted his hand to his chest, and she hid her smile behind her hand. "I have some authority is theesh partsh. And you can call yourshelf Dragontitsh if you want."

Regan. She was Regan again. And she could be Dragontits if she wanted.

"I might take you up on that," she said, laughing her heart out. That name had clung to her, and had stung her worse than she had known, and now it was gone. Poof! Like a dragon with tits had blown it out.

Murderface was grinning like his face would fall off. He never had known the sense that someone appreciated him, perhaps because he had never done anything to earn it. He had put up all these decorations in order to get laid, but now he was glad they were here, just because. Even the coconut water. Because ladies loved coconut water.

"Sho will you let me try shomething?" He took her hand again. She still wasn't ready to completely trust him, and she had to talk something out with him, but that warm feeling stayed with her. And she was pretty sure, after the yoga incident, that she could beat him up.

"No sexy stuff yet," she frowned.

He shook his bushy head. "Shcouts honor." They had kicked him out of Boy Scouts for setting the troop leader's tent on fire, but no reason to tell a nice lady about _that_.


	6. Sex, Lies, and Audiotape

Murderface took Regan's hand and led her to the bed. She approached with caution. When she sat down, a preset spring went off, and with a creaking sound what seemed like a ton of roses fell on top of them.

Regan cried out as she fell back on the bed, nearly smothered by flowers. "What the fuck, Murderface!"

But he was screaming louder. "MY EYE! MY EYESH!" His eyes were still sore from the pepper spray.

"Oh shit!" said Regan, struggling to escape from the plague of roses. "Is it a thorn?"

He groaned, and she gently lifted the rose from his face. He blinked.

"You're fine," she said.

"I am?" he asked. He patted his eye, and looked up in admiration. Regan remembered the story of when Dethklok had gone to the Amazon and found their spirit animals. Murderface had been a tiger, they had said, like one of those deformed, in-bred tigers, but a tiger nonetheless. And now she felt like she had removed a thorn from his paw.

"Well, it was a nice gesture anyway." Regan and Murderface pushed the piles of roses off the bed.

"You know these sheets, Murderface? They don't seem quite, well, quite you."

"Who shays?"

"Well," she said, passing her hands over the silk fabric. "They're pink for one."

He folded his arms. "They're pink and _red_! They're the color of- the color of- the flesh of mutilated corpses!"

He had a point there.

"Now come here, you." He reached for her and she darted back. But he nudged toward her with a kind expression. He took her long fingers in his stubby one, surprisingly gently.

"Now watsch this." His heavy brick-like brows furrowed in concentration and he began to move his fingers over her hand. He hit the soft spots, the pressure points, and kneaded her palm. A thrill of pleasure passed over her scalp.

"How are you doing that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Jush a little shometing I picked up from the Guru."

She let him to continue, and he kept finding little crevices in her hand. She didn't like allowing herself to relax. As a Klokateer she always had to be on her guard, watching her back. This felt so intimate, too intimate and she urged herself to pull away. But the sweetness of this simple act was too much. She didn't move.

"Murderface, you could barely bend over. How in the hell did your- your guru- teach you to do this?"

"I think it'sch from being a mashter bassch player," he said. He flexed his hands and interlaced his fingers, cracking them.

Regan smiled to herself. It was common knowledge that Murderface barely practiced, but he could hold his own in concert. There had to be _some_ truth to what he said.

He switched to the other hand and continued, playing with the tips of her fingers. Her eyes drooped- _she had something to do, something important to do_…

* * *

She woke to Murderface snoring. In her dreamlike state, she laughed. It was a funny sound- Murderface sucked in through his nostrils, and the air whistled out through the gap in his teeth. Then her eyes flashed open.

_What the hell was she still doing here?_

She patted down her body. She was fully dressed- nothing had happened. And Murderface was still dressed, down to that hideous tie. She looked around desperately for a clock and then rushed to the window. _Thank God_. It was still dark outside. They still had so much to talk about, but he hadn't given her a chance. Why had she squandered so much time?

She looked down at her palms. Her hands still tingled, and a hint of smile played on her lips.

Regan knelt over Murderface. She was a little afraid to wake him- he was known to have a temper, after all. But she had taken enough chances. Why not another?

"Murderface! Wake up! Wake up!" She shook him gently by the shoulders.

Murderface grunted and snorted. He opened his foggy eyes halfway. There was a misty face, the face of a woman, and the feel of her soft hair on his cheeks. This was one of his favorite dreams. He settled happily into it, and craned his neck downwards. Yup, there they were, the two awesome tits, just hanging there, in his face, Murderface….

"_Murderface_!" he was jolted awake. "Stop staring at my chest and get up!"

He grunted and whined, and finally sat up. "You're shtill here! Did we-" he knudged her ribs. "Do it?"

She pushed him gently, and he fell back on the pillow. "_William_!" she said.

His lips curled in an expression of comical rage. "Watch it, _Dragontitsh_," he said.

"Well, anyway, we're fully dressed, so no."

He shrugged, adjusting his stupid tie. He seemed to actually kind of proud of his outfit. "Shome girls think itsch shexy with the clothes on. You know-" he raised his eyebrows up and down. "Like _kinky_."

"Who thinks that?" she asked.

"Like uh…uh.." he was scratching his helmet head. "Like Amisch girlsh!"

"And you would know." She pursed her lips together.

"Yeah! I've fucked tonsh of Amisch babes. Hundredsh."

Regan rolled her eyes, and resisted the urge to push him again. "Now, we've got to talk about something."

Murderface frowned- it seemed by 'serious' she wasn't talking about sex. With that business-like voice she reminded him of Charles, and he shuddered, thinking of all the boring meetings he'd sat through.

"Look, I know about your bet with Skwisgaar."

"You do?" he asked.

She bit her lip. Muderface had a reputation for being very insecure, and she didn't want to get under his skin. "Now, I know, under normal circumstances, you could get lots of chicks, just as many as Skwisgaar. Maybe more"

Murderface looked up at her, his interest piqued.

Regan folded her arms and thought rapidly. "But you know, Skwisgaar's got long hair and stuff so it's kind of like being with a girl. Women feel safer with him. But there's something about you." She tilted her head dramatically. "Something _dangerous_." She rolled her tongue on the final 'S'.

Murderface nodded frantically. He was eating up her words.

"Women are intimidated by you because of your raw _sexuality_."

"Yeah," he said, doubtfully, but clearly enjoying the idea. "I never thought about it that way."

"So clearly it's a little difficult for you to get as many girls as fast. But it would help you save a little face, don't you think, if you could get one girl?"

Murderface tilted his eyebrow at her. She looked back at him, smiling awkwardly.

_Uh-oh_, she thought.

His hand plunged into the small of her back, arching it, and leaned in toward her. His moustache brushed her lip. For a fraction of second, she felt herself giving in to the enjoyment of his strong hands, but quickly gathered herself and shoved him away.

"Oh _no_, Murderface," she said as innocently as she could. She didn't fancy herself a great actress, and it was a strain on her to play so coy. "It's not easy for me either! You see- I'm intimidated by you too!" She curled up her hands together in a helpless gesture. It would perhaps have been more convincing if she hadn't shoved him so hard before. But he had rattled her, holding her like that.

His eyes opened wide. "You are?"

"Yes, and I'm not that kind of girl! I'm proposing something different. We could play a trick on the whole band- on Skwisgaar!"

"Yeah, a trick! Those ashholes alwaysh think they're so great! And fucking Shwkisgaar- thinksh he'sh-"

He was about to go onto a tirade, but she placed her finger on his lips. "Shhhhh…"she said.

When she pulled her finger away again he was back at it. "Thinksh he'sh shuch a badash. They alwaysh make me-"

She clapped her hand over his mouth.

"Well, if you help me," she said. "We can let them all think we had sex."

"I brought you back here, of coursh they'll think…"

She pulled a strand of hair back over her ear ."Well," she said sheepishly, "I kind of gave the impression I wouldn't."

He looked at her in desperation. "Regan!" he whined. "Why did you do _that_?"

Regan shrugged. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." But she was glad she had done so, because it was her only bargaining chip now. "But we can make them think that we did. What proof do you need?"

"Huhh…audio teshimonial, video evidensh, or pantiesh."

"Panties- eh?" That seemed like the easiest solution.

"Ummm," Murderface turned beet red. He looked kind of cute like that. "I kinda tried yeshterday to show them a pair, but the tagsh were shtill on, and the dickholesh laughed at me!"

"Really?" she asked. She tried not laugh at well.

"Yesh!" he sobbed, his face in his hands. "I- I bought them…" He gasped for air. "Dishcount… at Fintroll's! I'm shuch...a...loosher!"

"There, there." She said, patting his back, and guiding his hand gently from the stained glass lamp he was clearly going to smash. "Ok, then panties are out," she said, thinking.

He looked hopefully at her. It was the first time she had seen his eyes open wide from something other than frustration or rage. They looked kind of- she never thought she would think this- _pretty_. Not buggy but round, and a really lovely shade of green. But unfortunately, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

"No, Murderface! We are _not_ doing a sex tape."

"Ah, c'mon! Pleeeassh?"

She crossed her arms and turned to the side, pouting. It occurred to her that she was making a very Murderface gesture. She turned back to him, and there were those green eyes with tints of yellow, looking hopefully at her.

"Fine," she said. We _will_ do a sex tape. But an _audio_ sex tape."

"What?" he asked.

"Let me see your Dethphone."

He pulled it from the bedside table and she flicked through it. It had the most advanced apps in the world, often given to Dethklok before their initial release. And there it was-the newest edition of Dethband, a top recording app.

"Great," she said. "We'll make a bunch of sex sounds, so many that even Skwisgaar will be satisfied. And then it will sound like we had sex. Audio testimonial AND sex tape in one."

"Yeah!" said Murderface. "That would show thosh guysh. God, I hate them. Let'sh get shtarted!" He reached for his phone.

"Wait!" said Regan, pulling it out of reach. "There's something _you_ have to do for _me_."


	7. The Best Laid Plans

Murderface tilted his head, looking a bit like a confused puppy. "What?"

"This is a bargain Murderface." She said, hoping her voice didn't betray her anxiety. "I want to help you your bet, but I want- no I _need_ -something, and only you can help me."

He looked up at her. Only he could help her. He liked the sound of that. It made him feel important. He nodded.

"Well," she said. "We both know about my leg."

She waited for the joke, but it didn't come. He was fixated what she had to say.

"You see how it's made of wood."

"Yeah, like a pirate," he said. "It'sh pretty brutal."

"Well, yeah it is, in a way. But you know how you're a metal band?"

"Of coursh," he said.  
"And everything in this damned building is made of metal?"

"Well, not _everything_," he said.

"No, Murderface," she said, nearly rolling her eyes. "Not _everything_. But l'd say the vast majority of people don't have metal houseplants-" she pointed to a chrome plated fern in the corner, " Or for that matter-" she pointed to a small creature emerging from under one of the cannons. "Metal-shelled armadillos as pets."

"Sho?" asked Murderface.

"So don't you think you could have done a little better than _this_?" asked Regan, pointing to her leg in exasperation.

"Yeah, I guessh," he said furrowing his heavy brows together. Murderface had never heard a Klokateer complain about anything. Of course, there were all those who met with…_hamburger time_, but at least they didn't have to be, as Nathan would say, regular jackoffs.

He looked at Regan, a little baffled at her look of indignation. But he thought a little more, and it occurred to him that she didn't seem like a Klokateer exactly, but a person like he was, who might be afraid of injury and-he gulped-_hamburger time_. The thought unsettled him.

Then his eyes lit up.

"I know! We can dip your leg in the metal vat! That'sh how we got Brutalish over there shet up." He pointed to Brutalis the armadillo, who scurried back under the cannon. "Let'sh go!" he said, tugging at her hand.

"No, Murderface," she said, pulling back. "I have a better idea."

Regan reached into her bag and pulled out several scrolls. She laid them out on the bed and smoothed them over.

"You do know that I used to be a Dethcopter pilot, right?"

"Uhhhh…" said Murderface.

"No," she said wryly. "Of course you didn't. But I had to have flown you around twenty times."

"Ohhh! You were the chick right?"

"Yes, that's right, Murderface. That was me. The chick. But I'm not a pilot anymore."

"Why not?" asked Murderface, genuinely interested. If he thought about it, it would be kind of cool have to have Regan manning their Dethcopter.

"Because I can't handle the controls with this thing." She tapped her fingers on her peg-leg. "It's just not sensitive enough."

"Sho what do you do now?"

"I've been designing new features for the Dethcopter. And I've come up with a lot of good ones. But this one- it's for me."

She ran her fingers over the computer-rendered diagram of the Dethcopter, and then pointed out a few details in a side panel. "You see this pedal here?"

"Yesh," he said.

"It can be operated with a few simple signals. That is- when used with my other design."

She eagerly pulled out another diagram. "This is a leg I've designed. It's hyper-sensitive, both to the ground and the pedal. So that would mean I could walk- even run. I could climb up to make repairs. And most of all, I could use it to control the Dethcopter. Murderface, I could be a pilot again!"

Murderface looked on in awe. He had never been trusted with plans so complicated before. "Sho you're saying…you want a leg…that ish also a helicopter." He looked up her in utter admiration. "That'sh sho…brutal."

Regan's jaw dropped. "No Murderface, I don't think you get it." She went over it, explaining each part in depth until he understood- somewhat.

"I shtill think it would be better if you could fly with your leg," he said, frowning. "But thish is shtill pretty fucking amashing."

She looked up at him, and Murderface was nearly alarmed at how bright and pretty her smile was. His skin flushed over, and he stammered something.

But Regan didn't hear him. "So we can have these made?"

"Of coursh!" he said.

She threw her arms around him, and he pressed her to him. His grasp was strong and secure. She pulled herself from his embrace, and they were both blushing.

"Thank you, Murderface."

"Aw, ish nothing…Dragontits,"and he gave her a big, gap-tooth grin, as she punched his arm playfully.

"So," she said slyly, tilting her head so her hair fell over her shoulder. "Should we begin the taping?" It embarrassed her to think about it, but she had the sense it was going to be a lot of fun.

Charles Foster Ofdensen appeared calm and collected as always, but he wanted to tear his hair out by the roots. Earlier that day, a sexual harassment lawsuit had been filed against Murderface by one of the Klokateers. He scanned the file- she was a computer security specialist by the name of Leila Brimston. How often did he have to tell them to stay away from the Klokateers? They had countless groupies and admirers- it simply wasn't necessary. Though of course- Ofdensen smiled grimly – things were a bit harder for Murderface.

His assistant rushed in. "Sir, there's a Klokateer to see you- he says it's about Lord Murderface. He's at it again."

"What do you mean?" asked Ofdensen fiercely. "Nevermind. Quick, show him in."

The Klokateer ran into the office. "My Lord," he said gasping. "We have ascertained the identity of Lord Murderface's date, as per your request."

"Yes?" asked the CFO, arching an eyebrow.

"Her name is Burke- Regan Burke. My Lord, she's a Klokateer. Number 4012, former Dethkopter pilot and currently working on Dethkopter innovations."

"Goddamn it," said Ofdensen, dropping his face into his palms. Murderface had been so excited about the woman coming over that he hadn't been able to tell him about the lawsuit. But Murderface had no idea what he was risking: his finances were in shambles, and he could not, any under circumstances, be involved with another Klokateer. "Is she still there?"

"She is, my Lord." The man gulped. "And…"

"Spit it out."

"I believe they are having…intercourse."

Ofdensen plunged down the hall, up the stairs, and to Murderface's door. Sure enough, there was the sound of a bed creaking, heavy moaning, and what the fuck was that- a pig squealing?

"The sick bastard," whispered Ofdensen, shaking his head, and he pounded on the door.


	8. Playing by Ear

"No, no, no!" said Murderface. They were sitting on the floor cross-legged with the dethphone between them. "More like this!" He cleared his throat.

"Uhhhhhh…"he said.

Regan pouted. "My moan was a lot better."

"You know Regan," he said. "I've alwaysh conshidered myshelf the Dethklok artisht. I get thingsh." He pressed his hand against his heart and pursed his lips together. "In here."

She shrugged. "It's only a sex tape."

"Only a- only a shex tape?" he asked, raising his hands and waving them "We're dishplaying the greatesht act of passion between two people. Only a shex tape- this ish art! Sho repeat after me."

"Alright then," said Regan, taking a deep breath. He pushed the record button on the dethphone.

"Uhhhhhhh." Murderface closed his eyes.

"Uhhhhhh." She repeated.

He stopped the recording. "Bingo." He said, and fooled with the phone. "Now add some sexy music." A low saxophone melody played. "And maybe a splash or two."

"Murderface! That doesn't even make sense!" Regan snatched the phone. "We're gonna do this differently. Now try to touch your toes again."

"I don't want to-"

"That's because you can't, and never will."

Murderface turned bright red and began to grumble. "Damned woman," he said. He stood up and reached slightly downward. Regan pressed the record button, and then pushed down on his back so that his fingers just touched his toes.

"Oohhhhh!" Murderface cried out in pain, and Regan stopped the recording.

"Perfect! That's your part, finished," she said.

"_You. Bitch_." He squeaked, still stuck in position.

"You should be happy! You finally touched them." She played back the sound. "Oohhhhh! Oohhhhh!" It was very convincing.

"_Help. Me."_ Gasped Murderface.

"Alright then, you baby." Regan rubbed his lower back slightly and guided him up. He narrowed his eyelids and folded his arms. "Now my turn," she said.

"Sheriously, that fucking sucked," groaned Murderface, rubbing his back.

Regan looked at him with a mix of amusement and pity. "I know, sweetheart, and I'm sorry." She quickly kissed his cheek. He reddened, and gave her a goofy smile, touching the spot where she had kissed him.

"Now shhh!" she said. This morning she never would have conceived of doing this. It felt so unlike her to be so free, so playful. But there was something in Murderface's odd features and funny mannerisms that brought it out in her. She looked into his eager eyes, and his smile of approval buoyed her spirits. She could do anything here, however bizarre. Regan cleared her throat and pressed record.

She shut her eyes. It started with a slow, deep moan, and escalated higher and higher. It was singing, and crying out- this emulation of desire. Her voice grew husky and low, in deep rhythmic sighs, and then rose again, peaking in a shrill call of unadulterated pleasure. She didn't know how long she had gone on, but she let out a deep sigh and felt a real chill settle down her spine. She opened her eyes and stopped the recording.

Beads of sweat rolled from Murderface's forehead, and he was breathing heavily. "Regan," he said. "That wash very good…acting."

She laughed nervously, and tugged on a string of hair. She felt self-conscious again. "You think so?"

"Ooo yeah," he said. "You coulda fooled me."

"We're only missing one part," she said.

"What is that?" he whispered.

"The mattress." Regan stood on one side of the bed, and motioned him to the other. "We need to make a creaking sound. I think it would be very realistic."

Their eyes met from across the bed. "Very realishtic," he repeated dreamily. "Yeah."

She laid down the phone on the bed. They pushed up and down on the mattress so that the springs creaked.

"That's great," she said, smiling. "Now let's put it all together."

They knelt side by side, their arms nearly touching. They toyed with the application so that all the sounds blended together. Murderface insisted on the splash sound, and a pig squeal, in spite of Regan's protests. They then pressed play and listened.

Regan blushed when she heard the sounds she had made interspersed with random cries of "Oohhhhh! Oohhhhh!" But it was _so_ funny. She could barely contain herself when the pig started to squeal.

She burst into peals of laughter, and Murderface joined her. She found herself muffling her laughter in his shoulder, and she could feel his broad hand stroking her hair.

"Murderface…" she said, looking up. His strange green eyes fixed on her, and he took her shoulders in his hands.

There was a loud pounding at the door, and they jumped apart, startled.


	9. Trial by CFO

"Who is that?" asked Regan. She felt dizzy, as though she had just plunged from a great height. She adjusted her peg leg under her. She had been so distracted she hadn't felt it pressing sharply against her skin.

Murderface only frowned. He marched toward the door and threw it open, revealing Charles Foster Ofdensen.

"What _ish_ it?" asked Murderface, the irritation rising in his throat. "You may not have notished, I'm a little _occupied_ at the moment!"

Ofdensen peeked into the room, and noted the dethphone playing on repeat. "So that's what that was!" He said, the relief evident in his voice. He peered at the Klokateer, Regan. Her face was bright red, and she clicked off the phone.

"So you didn't have sex with her?" he asked Murderface, his pleasure perhaps too clear.

"Well," he said, "I, uh." Murderface stamped his food. "Goddamnit, that's pershonal!"

Regan had turned her head, and was pretending not to be listening.

"Now Murderface," said Charles softly, motioning him to the hallway. "I've got something pretty important to tell you."

"Yeah? Can't it wait! It'sh like four in the morning, and I've got company. You know, a lady."

Charles bit his tongue. This wasn't the time to get into a screaming match with Murderface. Much better to talk to the woman alone.

"We can talk about it later," he said, thinking quickly. "Just wanted to alert you that Jean-Pierre's whipping up some stuff for you downstairs."

"Yeah, shomething to eat would be jusht great. We've been hard at work."

"I can tell," said Ofdensen dryly, thinking of the sex recording.

"Tell him to bring it up here when he'sh done."

"Well, I thought since tonight seems to be an important evening for you, you could organize something special down there. You know, a surprise."

Murderface looked at him blankly.

"Ahem," Ofdensen coughed. "Girls like that kind of thing. Or so I've been told."

Murderface put his finger up to his lip, thinking. His expression brightened. "Yeah, chicksh do like that, don't they?." He popped his head into his room.

"Hey Regan, I'm gonna get ush shome chow!"

"That sounds great!" She hadn't realized how much time had passed, and she really was hungry.

"Be back in a jiffy!" Murderface called, and ran past Ofdensen.

Ofdensen picked up his walkie-talkie. "Number 6819, get Jean-Pierre up and in the kitchen _stat_," he ordered. That done, he gave a deep sigh. He didn't like this kind of thing, but it had to be done. The things he did for his boys….

"Ms. Burke," he said, slipping into the room.

Regan was fully dressed but she felt exposed. She grasped the bedpost and pulled herself up.

"It's Regan, Sir- you can call me that." She smiled. "I'm a Klokateer, after all."

"No, Regan, I haven't forgotten, even if you have."

Her smile fled from her face and she was silent.

"And Regan,…that's a bit of a privilege isn't it? You should by rights be Number 4012."

Regan nodded bitterly.

"You got to use your name, as a special boon, when you started flying the Dethcopter. Which if I remember, you aren't doing anymore."

"No Sir, I'm not." Her jaw clenched. She wished she were wearing something different, anything- just not this foolish dress with her cleavage exposed.

Ofdensen approached her and leaned his hand on her shoulder. He had never touched her, and the firm skin of his hands felt alien to her. "But that's just a technicality. I like to keep the workplace cordial, Regan. There's no reason we can't all be friends."

It seemed with Murderface gone and Ofdensen standing before her that all her sense of security had fled. She was left with her wooden leg, and the sense that it wasn't supporting her. She gripped the bedpost, hoping her body wouldn't crumble under her.

"I don't believe I've done anything wrong, Sir," she said.

"No, Regan, not yet. But you see, there's a reason you're called Gears." She stiffened as he brushed her hair aside. He took her hand and pressed it against the back of her neck, against her gear brand. It felt at that moment hot to touch, as though newly seared into her flesh. "Mordhaus is a machine, one that needs perfect coordination to work. If you have one Gear that is out of place, or doesn't function properly- then the entire mechanism falls apart. "

Regan was torn. For years it been drilled into her- Mordhaus above all else, Dethklok above all else, and she still felt it, in her chest, in the pit of her stomach. She was nothing to the grand contraption. But beside these few hours with Murderface, the massive importance of Dethklok had faded. She wasn't sure she wanted to work for an entity beyond all conception. What she wanted was a friend.

"But Sir, Murderface and I were just, well, having fun. "

"Fun? Is that it? You do know that he's facing a major sexual harassment lawsuit, right?"

"He is?" She wasn't sure if she was surprised or not.

"Yes, Regan. From one of your coworkers, from Brimston."

"Leila.." said Regan, unable to conceal the admiration in her voice. Only Leila would have dared strike back. Not that she wanted anything bad for Murderface, but hell, he deserved it.

"That's why I tell them, again and again, not to mix with you. And you know you're not supposed to either. You've got a job to do, and you've got to put all your energy into that, not distracting the band."

She had been suppressing her human needs for so long that these past few hours had been a revelation to her. A Klokateer was a kind of warrior, and with all its little indignities, it was a job-no, a vocation- with glory. But how much had she sacrificed? She had a sense of humor, and had forgotten it. She had a desire for companionship, and that was buried too. But with Ofdensen's words she felt herself sinking back into her former, harder self. She stood more upright and her lips and hands stiffened.

"Yes, sir. I understand" She looked at the bed, and the plans which had rolled up as though closing forever. _Just plans_. Just another thing she'd have to toss into this sacrificial pit. "Only-," She felt so weak asking this. "Can I say goodbye to Murderface?"

"Lord Murderface, Regan. And I don't think he'd like that- he's just been sued after all. He asked me to see you out."

In spite of all her resolution, the news was bitter. She gnawed at her lip and turned her head.

"Get some sleep, Regan. You've got to be up in two hours. And no more trouble, alright?"

She looked him direct in the eyes, a bold gesture. She then nodded slowly, and walked out the door as though dazed.

Ofdensen took off his glasses, and pressed between his eyes, his characteristic gesture. _That wasn't easy_, he thought, with a vague sense of regret. But he had worked tirelessly the past ten years for these boys, brought them from drunken oblivion to the height of greatness. It was his passion, and his obsession. The Klokateers existed for no other reason to be functional, as they had been told time and time again. If he started worrying about them or empathizing with them, the structure would fall apart, taking Dethklok with it.

He had a great mind, an organized mind, but he couldn't control everything, and he had arranged a system that would function like clockwork. That people would be crushed- both figuratively and literally- went without saying, and he couldn't hold himself to blame at every instance.


	10. A Friend Indeed

_More drama/angst! But it will get better! Thanks to Misty Day for the continued support!_

* * *

Murderface practically skipped up to the room. His hands were laden with a huge cake topped with bloodied hearts and sparklers. He wasn't sure what exactly what he was celebrating- but there definitely _was_ something to celebrate. He knew it.

The two Klokateers behind him held a smorgasbord of snacks, ranging from Doritos carefully arranged formed into the shape of swan to a sculpture of Murderface's head done entirely in mashed potato. Jean Pierre wasn't just a chef- he was an artist.

He pushed the door open with his butt, and yelled "Shurprise!"

But there was no sign of Regan.

"Hey Charlesh!" he said. The CFO was studying Regan's plans. "Where'sh Regan?"

"She's gone, Murderface," he said, putting them down. "And I hate to break it to you, but she's not coming back."

Murderface threw down the cake and it splattered on the ground, spewing blood-red jelly all over the room.

"Watch it, Murderface," said Charles. "These glasses cost a fortune."

"Wh-what happened to her?" For the first time in his life, Murderface felt a sense of foreboding for someone else. Charles didn't often appear in his room, and when he was here, it usually meant that someone had died, and that, combined with Regan's absence brought a terrible premonition.

Human life outside of the band itself wasn't worth much in Mordhaus- people plummeted to their death or exploded here daily. It wouldn't be such a stretch if she were one of them. His heavy features crumbled.

"What did you do to her?" he growled.

"Murderface," said Charles, obviously alarmed. "She's fine. But she had to go-"

"Go where?" Murderface shuddered. The whole band knew that Charles had _methods_ for getting the information he wanted, but they didn't think about it much.

Charles sighed. "Listen, buddy-" he placed his hand on Murderface's shoulder. Murderface shook it off.

"I'm not going to lishen- not thish time. Regan is a nicsh lady, and she doeshnt desherve whatever the fuck you have planned."

"Will you shut up for once?" Charles' voice was unusually harsh. "She's perfectly safe. I sent her back to her room- she doesn't belong here with you."

"And why not? Becaush I'm fat? Becaush I'm ugly? Becaush I'm the one they alwaysh foregt about me? That doeshn't seem to bother her."

"It's not that Murderface." Charles sighed. "She's just not good enough for you."

"Why the fuck not? She'sh a scientisht for christshake. If any groupie off the streetsh is good enough…"

"Murderface, you're getting it wrong. You have to understand who these Klokateers are. They sold themselves to Metal, to us, making them- now, I hate to use this word- but slaves in a sense."

"Shlaves!" asked Murderface. "What the fuck doesh that mean?"

"Forget I said that, Murderface. But they're cunning. Let them do their jobs, and they're fine. But let them get close to you, become your friend or get in your bed, and you're screwed."

Murderface folded his arms. "That doeshn't make shense."

Charles laughed grimly. "Oh, but it does." He picked the plans up off the bed. "I think I know what these are," he said. "She wants you to make her something- some fancy leg or something?"

"What'sh it to you?" asked Murderface, his jaw jutting out.

"And she came to you because you're best friends?"

"Well, no, not yet, but we're-" Murderface started.

"No, you're not best friends. But she picked you out because she thought she could use you. These girls are cunning, Murderface, real cunning."

Murderface tilted his eyebrow. "What are shaying?"

"She could have gone to any member of Dethklok, but did she? No. She went to you, because she smelled desperation. She knew you were lonely, and horny. She had a goal, and she honed in on it."

"That'sh not true!" screamed Murderface, but his features were trembling with doubt.

"Well guess what? You think you can trust a Klokateers? The girl who sits next her, some pal of her no doubt, just sued you for sexual harassment. She's gonna clean you out, and God know what Regan would have done to you."

Murderface raised up his leg in a fury, and smashed the remainder of the cake. "I fucking knew it," he said in rage and grief. "It wasn't poshible.."

"Now there," said Charles, holding up his hands.

"I alwaysh thought I wash fucking worthless- and you're right, she's messhing with me too." He rushed toward Charles, and Charles ducked. But Murderface just took the papers from his hands, ripped them in two, and crumpled them into a ball. He slid down onto the floor.

"Now get the fuck out of here," he said. His chest was heaving and his eyes were wet, but no tears were coming out.

"It's not worth this, Murderface. You'll be over it in no time." He patted Murderface on the shoulder.

Murderface shoved his hand off. "GET OUT!" he bellowed. Charles looked grimly at his client, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Murderface groaned. Like a wounded man, he clutched his stomach and dragged himself into bed. He took several hoarse breaths and reached out for the pillow that Regan had used. It still smelled faintly of her, a woman's scent. He held it close for several moments, and then thrust it across the room in a fury. The lamp crashed to the ground, leaving him in darkness.


	11. Love the Sin, Hate the Sinner

_Thank you so much Hawk, Sailor Sky Wolf, Alessandra West, and of course Misty Day for your support. I couldn't possibly have written so much without you! _

_This story is becoming increasingly dramatic- but don't worry, it will come back to it's sweet/funny roots in time._

_The new pic is something I drew in a notebook and took a crappy pic of with my cell. In this version, Murderface is way too big, but he's curled his hair up just like Nathan does when he wants to impress a girl!_

_I just got a new Wacom tablet so expect some Metalocalypse fan art soon, and of course art for this story._

* * *

It was early, so early, and there was the door before her. All Regan had to do was open it, and step back into her old life. But her body ached: her back, her head, and worst of all was where her weight fell on the false leg. It was strapped tightly to her thigh, so tightly that it was sure to leave bruises, but it was never tight enough. She would never feel steady again.

It was only her hands that were at ease- her hands that Murderface had kneaded with his deft fingers. She would gladly have taken real pain over this kind of ease, an ease that stemmed from _him_ and all he represented.

Regan's vision clouded over. She hadn't cried- she had been trained too well for that-but her eyes were red and they stung. She somehow hadn't been able to shut them in the hour before it was time to get up and prepare for work. She had been afraid- of what? Of dreaming perhaps, of fermenting a longing so recently learned, and so soon snatched from her.

Regan slipped into the online services department, hoping her co-workers would keep their faces to their screens and let her pass. But they all looked up, and there was a faint murmuring among them.

So word had gotten out- she had been with Murderface last night. What they surmised from that, she couldn't say. They might be jealous- he was a member of Dethklok, after all. But what would they make of her, if they could see her grim face and bloodshot eyes under her hood? They would surely be baffled.

She noticed that the order of the office had been shifted: three women sat at computers previously unoccupied in the back of the room. That left four empty spaces- on Leila's right and left.

Leila was being punished alright, punished for daring to speak out on what affected them all. It confused her that they could be so vindictive. But Leila had upset the order of Mordhaus, just as she had.

Not that Leila Brimston had ever had many friends. The Brimstone Bitch, they called her. As metal as it sounded, it was no compliment. She had a way of speaking her mind that alienated people around her. They had never gotten close, even sitting beside one another, but Regan had always liked her.

She sat at her desk, and flicked on her computer. A word processor was open with the words 'WHORE' written in large letters. Regan gritted her teeth as a few snickers passed through the room, and then snorted, deleting the document.

What did it matter what they thought? A sense of hollowness filled her belly. She didn't have anyone, not really. But no one would get the better of her either.

She waited two hours, tweaking her models, and then undoing her progress. If she had been at work on the Dethcopter, she would be tinkering and wrenching and working with her hands. It would be the perfect distraction. In spite of all the suffering it had caused her, she did want to go back, and desperately. She tried to squelch the longing in her body for movement and action, but it was little use. With only the blank screen before her, she was staring into a wasteland.

"Coffee break!" The characteristic squeak of Facebones broke from the monitor. The girls stretched their bodies and marched into break room. But Regan wasn't interested in coffee. She needed to breathe: it felt like her hood was choking her. She limped to the employee staircase, one of the few places Klokateers could bear their faces. She tore off her mask as soon as she entered, and leaned against the concrete wall. She inhaled, and turned her head sharply when she heard the rustle of clothes behind her.

"Leila!" she said, letting the air out.

Leila was sitting on the stairs with her hood in her lap, her head resting on her hands. Her dark gold hair fell through her fingers and it seemed like she was shaking. Regan had never seen her in such a position of obscene vulnerability, and had to stop herself from gaping.

"Oh," said Leila, lifting her head. "It's you."

If Regan were the type to harbor jealousy, she would have envied her. Leila was a classic beauty, if a harsh one, with long green eyes and curving lips. Her body was flexible and cat-like: Regan often saw her pulling her arms over her head in a long yawn, or curling up her legs under her chair. No, Leila wasn't well liked, but she exuded self-assured grace and a confidence that Regan sorely needed. Who else would have injured a band member, then dared to sue him? The audacity and courage took her breath away.

Leila blinked at her, her slender eyes sinking with exhaustion.

"I-" Regan hesitated. "I think you were very brave." She sighed. It was difficult for her to compliment someone, and felt stilted and awkward.

"Yes," said Leila, her lips curling. "Or stupid. I might not be here very long."

"They wouldn't dare to fire you-"

"No, they wouldn't. But life won't be easy for me now- they'll make me pay."

"Then why don't you-" Regan didn't dare say the words aloud.

"Go? And you? Look what they've done to you! You're still here."

Regan was silent.

"I'm a hacker- or _excuse me_, online security specialist. I love this job. I love sneaking into things and uncovering secrets, and only Mordhaus has the tools I need."

"_That's why_?" Somehow it didn't seem enough to Regan. She didn't think of her own passion for the Dethcopters, for piloting them, and yes, even plugging away at that dull computer screen trying to fix them. But the loneliness- Regan was lonely, but Leila was despised, and now worse than ever.

"No," Leila shook her head. "That's not all. I love Mordhaus, I love the metal, and I love Dethklok. The music sears into me. I can't help it. But it's an art that goes beyond its makers- you understand?"

"Not quite…" Leila hesitated.

"It's like that expression-_hate the sin, but love the sinner_. But for me it's the opposite- I love the sin, but the sinners can go fuck themselves."

"You don't mean it." Regan was shocked.

Leila sneered. "Listen, they're not gods, Regan. They're people, even if their music will alter the course of destiny. And if Murderface is going to fuck with me, I'm going to bite back."

Regan flushed at the mention of Murderface.

"You spent the night with him, didn't you?" Leila's face was blank.

"It's not really a secret," said Regan. "But we didn't really-do anything."

"Wow," said Leila. "I wasn't expecting that. No one will believe you, of course."

Regan pressed herself firmly against the wall. "No, they won't."

"But you know, I think Murderface is okay."

Regan's jaw dropped. She didn't believe it.

"Not that he can fuck with me. But I didn't sue to get him- I sued to get at this fucked up system that keeps us slaves. You do realize that we're people, Regan?"

Regan didn't know how to answer. She hung her head, and felt her eyes grow wet.

"Oh I can take a lot- the hard work, hell, the risk of death. I'd die for this band. I really would. But while I'm living, I want to own myself. " She leaned back. "But they shut us up, deny us our names, and pit us against each other. And look at your leg." Regan laughed bitterly. "You, a top pilot. What a _joke_."

Regan didn't like the attention drawn to her leg, and she hated to think that other people were talking about it.

"But listen," said Leila softly. "I kind of respect Murderface in a way."

Regan wished Leila wouldn't mention him, but she wanted to know. "Why?"

"Because he comes down here and talks to us. Like people. And he didn't care that you were a Klokateer- he didn't treat you like his servant, did he?"

"Well, he didn't realize who I was until the last minute. But no, it was kind of- a _date_." Regan said the last word bitterly. It seemed like such a quaint word- _date_- as though she lead a normal life.

Leila laughed. It was a kinder laugh. "A date with Murderface. Who would of thought? But it was funny when I got him, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," whispered Regan, smiling a little in spite of herself.

"And he deserved it. But he's not so bad- just spoiled by fame."

Regan scrunched up her face. Murderface hadn't seemed so spoiled- besides his decked-out room of course. He had seemed insecure, so insecure in fact, that it made her issues with her leg almost nothing in comparison.

Leila smiled, limited only by the tightness in her body. "So don't worry about me. I'm going to change things, but on my own terms. And don't be sorry about Murderface. He's an ok guy, even if he is an idiot."

It surprised Regan that Leila's words pained her. He _was_ an idiot- maybe. And he was nothing to her. But she didn't like to hear it.

They were both jarred by a voice on the loudspeakers. It was Facebones. "Mandatory Workplace Presentation! Sexual Harassment in the Workplace! All Klokateers report to the Morditorium!"

Leila and Regan looked at each other and groaned.


	12. A Shift in Mordhaus

Skwisgaar and Pickles were hanging out in the rec room. Neither had gone to bed that night. Pickles had been on a bender, and was drunkenly playing with a Magic Eye book, oohing and aahing, but not finding any of the hidden images.

Skwisgaar tried to fiddle with his guitar but his hand kept wandering to his crotch. He hated to say it, but he had really overdone it this time. All night, having sex. It was enough to make any one sore. There was a competitive edge to him, but why he felt compelled to compete with Murderface, he couldn't say.

"Because it's feckin' funny," slurred Pickles, and Skwisgaar realized he had been talking aloud.

Skwisgaar nodded, grimacing a little. "Ja," he said, with a forced smile. "It ams funny."

Nathan and Toki joined them, slumping onto the couch.

Nathan noted Skwisgaar's hand, still pressed firmly against his dick. "Hard night?"

"Oh, jaaaa," said Skwisgaar, groaning. "I am becomes monks and never havink the sex agains."

They all laughed.

"Ya just gotta dip in in bleach," said Pickles.

"Bleach makes everything better," said Nathan. "Like Murderface says."

"Where is dat douchebag?" asked Pickles.

Toki smiled. "He had Eileens over. They probably ams making love all night."

Toki had had one hell of a night. His online date with the hideous Caroline had been a disaster, and he was terrified of his obligation to impregnate her on the fifteenth. Still, he was optimistic, and wanted all of his best pals to be happy.

Skwisgaar snorted. "Ja rights. She said she ams not goingk to fuck him."

Nathan scratched his hair. This was his band and he had to keep the peace, but sometimes thoughts came into his head and just wandered out again.

"Uhhh…" he said.

"It ams possible!" said Toki, the pitch of his voice raising. "She might! I visits Moidaface this morning and he lies like this." He stood stiff, with his eyes wide open like a corpse, and his tongue half sticking out. "I think he ams real tired from the sex."

"Pffft," said Skwisgaar. If anything could distract him from his burning crotch, it was the sense of satisfaction that he had clearly won the bet.

"Here's Moidaface now!" cried Toki. "

Murderface stomped in, a grim expression on his face. This was nothing new. He wasn't a morning person. He slammed down on the couch.

"Moidaface!" said Toki, slipping down next to him. "Tell us about your dates!"

Murderface grumbled, and pushed Toki away.

"You mean his not gettingk laid partys?" asked Skwisgaar. "Yes, tell us all your cebilate adventures."

It was difficult for Murderface to move. Why had he come down here? Had he expected them to understand? He reached for his Dethphone- one click of a button and he could prove that something _had_ happened, that he wasn't a celibate loser. But a strong force that he couldn't name held him back. He swallowed hard and said nothing.

The band members looked at him in shock. Nobody whined quite like Murderface did- it was like a continued background track of irritated lisping to their daily lives. It seemed eerily quiet. But the voice of Facebones shook them awake.

"Mandatory Workplace Presentation! Sexual Harassment in the Workplace! All Klokateers report to the Morditorium!"

Murderface dropped his head into his hands.

"I ams not going to dildos employee meetingks!" protested Skwisgaar.

Charles Foster Ofdensen appeared at the door. He had the habit of showing up out of nowhere, to the point where Pickles had suggested he had several doubles. The thought had depressed them and had told him to shut up, because they missed their doubles, who had been the best friends they had ever known.

"You are going, Skwisgaar. All of you. Now come on."

"What are you, my dads?" moaned Skwigaar.

"Yeah your new dads who ams fucking your moms!" cried Toki.

Skwisgaar shoved Toki and grumbling, the entire band dragged themselves out the door.

Murderface looked frantically at the Klokateers. Where was she? She had been using him but he felt an inexplicable desire to see her one more time. The female division was standing together, but with the low light and their strict posture, he couldn't make her out.

But she could see him. It was impossible to miss that bushy helmet of hair. He was facing them, but the glaring screen in front of them made it impossible to make out his expression and features. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes.

The presentation came on, and it was worse than she imagined. There would be essentially no contact between male and female Klokateers. It was supposed to protect them, but it was clear what that would entail.

Relations between the men and women were already strained. The men had to go through a more grueling training process, because it would be a public relations nightmare to have attractive young women starving to death at Mordhaus. Regan had to claw her way to the top to man the Dethcopter, and she knew that many of those under her didn't respect her because her initial year at Mordhaus hadn't taken her to the brink of death. And now with these new restrictions in place, there would be even more reason to keep her closeted away in the online services department.

She turned to Leila, whose fists were tightening. Someone felt the way she did, and it was a relief. But the blame would surely fall on Leila. Regan felt a powerful urge to fight back and protect her.

The lights came on and Murderface stormed past her, not even seeing her. It must be humiliating for him too. It was strange to see him with an expression so bitter too- she was used to a kind of silly irritation, and then there werethe sweet, hopeful glances of the night before. _Best not to dwell on that_, she thought, as a wave of sadness swept over her. There would be changes in Mordhaus, and she would have to be prepared.


	13. Hatching Plots

Regan had noticed Leila's exhaustion and attributed it to her isolation and the stress of being avoided by the entire entire Klokateer corps. She had lost her languid grace and seemed to work with a frenzy, plugging away at her screen, and leaning in against it with her shoulders hunched over.

But Regan had underestimated her friend- and friend she was, because their confidence had continued and intensified over. They were careful in their conversations- the stairwell was obviously bugged- but spoke of their pasts and their desires. In a weak moment Regan would mention Murderface, and Leila would smile indulgently at her.

Leila was exhausted all right, but it was from spending long nights at her private computer, and plugging away with a fierce determination to unravel a mystery that no one else had solved.

One afternoon Regan walked up to her and touched her shoulder. Leila flung her body back, pushing Regan against a coworker behind her.

"Watch it, gimp!" It was Greta, and she gave Regan a small shove.

"Hey," whispered Leila, taking Regan's hand. "I'm sorry- I didn't know it was you. I've been on edge lately."

"I can tell," said Regan softly. "What's up?"

Leila leaned in close. "I said I was going to change things and I meant it- I have big plans in store."

Regan groaned. "Don't get in over your head."

"I hate working in secrecy, but getting into the Mordhaus mainframe is my only chance."

Regan was tempted to raise her voice. She pulled back from Leila. "You're going to get yourself killed!" she hissed. "And don't tell me this- I don't know what I'd say under, under-" she hesitated.

"Under interrogation? Oh, Regan, I'm sure you'd hold your own. You've been through worse-" she gestured toward her leg.

"Don't joke about it!" Regan pulled her leg back.

"I'm not joking," said Leila. "If I have my way, the Klokateers will be safe from interrogation methods." She paused. " You're not going to snitch, are you?" Leila gripped her hands. Regan was surprised how strong her grasp was.

"You know I won't- but for Christssake, be careful."

Leila laughed lightly through her mask and her grip softened. "I'll get back to work then." She turned back to her computer.

Regan looked frantically around her. The Klokateers were glued to their screens. No one had heard or even seen them. She sank down into her chair in a flurry of thought. If only she could talk to someone. She thought fleetingly of Murderface, but knew that to confide in him would be deadly. Not that she was permitted to speak to him anyway. But it would be a relief to talk to him about the weather at this point. She shuddered, dismissing the warmth the idea brought her. She had gone too far, and knew too much. There was no backing out now.

* * *

Dethklok was gathered in the hot tub, but Murderface had wandered off. He said he was going to 'give his armadillo a bath" which the Scandanavian members of the band took to mean he was jacking off.

"What the fek is up with Murderface?" asked Pickles, raising his cocktail.

"Yeah, uh, he doesn't say much anymore." said Nathan. "It feels kind of-" he couldn't think of the right word.

"Like there ams an empty spaces where his whining ams belongking," said Skwisgaar. He slunk into the hot tub, groaning. "An empty spaces in my souls." They looked at him in surprise. Nobody had expected such emotion from him.

"Well, he ams my pal but I hates him," said Toki.

"Me too," said Nathan. "I fucking hate him."

"Yeah," said Pickles, "Hate that dude."

There was silence, and the foam circled around them.

"Perhaps, he's unhappy, ya know, like feelings," slurred Pickles, pounding his chest.

"Yeah like feelingks like blue balls in the crotches from not gettings laid," said Skwisgaar. He sounded more thoughtful than triumphant, though he had won the bet big time. Murderface hadn't produced a trace of evidence that he had had sex with anyone.

"I think his hearts ams hurting because Eileens ams not visiting no more," said Toki.

"Why can't we have any real friends?" whined Pickles. "Just you feckin douchebags."

"She's a Klokateer, Pickles," growled Nathan.

"Yeah, so?"

"So Klokateers need to make us food and fluff our pillows and murder our enemies and we shouldn't be hanging out with them." Nathan paused. "But uh- that kinda sounds like the best kind of friend."

"Yeah, I wants a reals Klokateer pals!" yelled Toki.

"Maybe-," Skwisgaar paused his guitar and pressed his lips together. "We needs to gets Eileens back so Murderface is havingk something to whine abouts agains."

"Like a girlfriend," said Nathan, shuddering. "Nothing more brutal than that."

"And they goes off and we don't see his ugly face no more!" said Toki.

"Yeah, I hate his fucking face," said Nathan.

"Ja," agreed Skwisgaar. "Totallys"

So it was agreed. They would work together to get Murderface together with Eileen again because they hated him, and wanted to give him something to whine about again, with the added benefit of not seeing his ugly face so much. Maybe their motivations were slightly kinder, maybe they were acting from the slightest hint of friendship, not that anyone of them would ever admit that to the others.


	14. American Song Society

The online services department seemed to grow smaller and more suffocating each day. Leila was fixated on her work, and Regan spent her time alternating between upgrading her designs and looking anxiously around her. There were more visitors- unfamiliar Klokateers, tall and menacing, who watched them at their work and quickly disappeared. Leila seemed to know instinctively when they were there, and Regan could see her back arch like a threatened alley cat.

Regan didn't know exactly what Leila's plans were, but she had a clue. Supposedly there were hidden interrogation centers, where suspect Klokateers and the occasional crazed fan were sent for questioning. They were places of the utmost cruelty, and the horror of it all overwhelmed her.

Regan did not want to think about it, and yet she was glad that someone _was_ thinking about it. She couldn't do anything herself- or could she? Of course she had her leg- and she snorted to herself. That could no longer be an excuse.

Her anxiety kept her up at night, and she wandered to her window from her bed and then back again. But as she built up the secret interrogation chambers in her mind they would transform until there was a pink and red bed, and sitar music and Civil War paraphernalia dotting the walls. She was back in Murderface's room, and they were laughing again, and she was very much alive.

In these fantasies there were no legs or lack of legs, and Murderface believed in himself, and they were free to tease each other and form little worlds of their own. Regan surprised herself, staring at the ceiling, as she thought of curling up with Murderface and sleeping away an entire afternoon. It wasn't natural. You were supposed to dream about waking life, not lie awake and imagine a long, tender sleep.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned instinctively toward it, smiling. But it shook her and she jumped up, startled.

"Regan," a voice whispered, and Regan could see the glow in the long eyes. She flicked on the light, and blinked as her eyes adjusted.

"What are you doing here?" asked Regan, her heart pounding. There was a kind of curfew, and the Gears were not supposed to visit each other after certain hours.

"I won't be here long," whispered Leila. "This is for you," she brought out a chain necklace, with a rectangular silver pendant of a knight clutching his sword. It looked like a tiny medieval sarcophagus.

Regan tilted her head. It was beautiful, but had Leila really risked coming her to give her a gift?

"It's not just a necklace," said Leila eagerly. She slipped off the top half of the knight, and revealed a flash drive. "Now this is a big responsibility, but I have no one else to turn to…if something should happen to me..."

"I'll do it," said Regan. She knew what was contained in there- Leila's files. Information about Mordhaus. She was risking her life, but she had to do _something_. She reached for the necklace.

"Wait, there's more," said Leila, obviously relieved that Regan had accepted it. She smiled broadly, revealing a silver molar. "I had this implanted," she said.

"You're becoming a cyborg," said Regan in spite of herself.

Leila laughed gently. "Well, in a way. If I grind my teeth a certain way, it will send a signal and your necklace will alarm. That means you need to check out the files and-"

"Find you?" finished Regan.

"It means I'm in trouble- and it's up to you to see that this information is spread. It could save a lot of lives- and well, maybe mine."

Regan gasped slightly and held her breath. Then she reached out her hand and clasped the necklace in her palms.

Leila looked up at her, her fierce eyes watering. "Thank you, Regan." She bent her head into her hands, and Regan realized she was sobbing gently.

Regan held out her arms and the two held each other for several seconds. Leila pulled from her embrace and wiped her eyes quickly.

"Now," she said confidently, as though it had never happened. "Back to work with me."

She slipped from the room, and Regan curled up into a ball. She held the necklace in her hands, and slipped in and out of consciousness, both dreaming and thinking.

* * *

Murderface sat at his desk. It was an important remnant of the Civil War- General Lee had written a few letters on it-and a very intellectual piece of furniture for a man who had never studied in his life.

He was toying with his blade, and considering whether to carve his initials into the wood. What were his initials anyway? No W- he was not William! So that would make him M, or maybe MF? He liked that-it was like motherfucker. He forced his knife into the priceless antique.

Finishing up, he placed the blade on his lips. It needed some kind of flourish. He made a circle around it and then two long curled stems from the circle. He looked up in surprise. He had drawn and R, and for what? For Regan.

_Murderface inside Regan_.

He allowed himself the pleasure of thinking about it, and then his lips curled up. He dove his blade into the wood and slashed it until the symbols were simply erratic markings.

"Muuurderface," came a call from the door.

"Fuck off!" yelled Murderface.

"It's me, your buddy Pickles!" Pickles entered hesitantly, and the other band members crept in behind him. Their faces were forced into solemn expressions.

"Can't you shee I'm working!" yelled Murderface, lifting up his knife.

The band looked at each other. Maybe Murderface was becoming his old self again. Still, this was too good to pass up.

"I got some gooood news for ya!" coaxed Pickles.

"Ya, I ams totallys jealous of you," said Skwisgaar. He wasn't a very good actor, but he tried his best.

This peaked Murderface's interest. Skwisgaar jealous- this must be something good.

Nathan held out an envelope. "This uh, " he said, holding back a snicker. "This came in the mail for you."

"Shince when do we get mail?" asked Murderface.

"We've always gotten mail." said Pickles.

"I never get any mail!" whined Murderface.

"Ja, I gets the packages all the time!" said Skwisgaar.

"Me too!," said Toki. "Lots of cool stuffs!"

"I gets cookies that my moms bakes and free Bahamas cruises vacations."

"Me too! Cookies and cruises to Bahamas!" cried Toki.

Skwisgaar looked resentfully at Toki. "Stop copies me!"

"But I do!" said Toki sadly.

Murderface grimaced and snatched the letter. The whole band was beaming while he opened it.

"Ahem! Dear Mishter Murderface," he read slowly, running his finger under the text. You have formally been invited-" The band nodded rapidly.

"By the American Shong Shochiety," he continued.

Pickles snatched the letter. Murderface was reading too slowly.

"To be recognized for song of the decade 'Planet Piss' by international band Planet Piss. Murderface, they're gonna give you an award!"

"American Song Society!" said Nathan. "I've never gotten anything from them before."

"Really?" asked Murderface, beaming.

"No! Me neither," Pickles turned his head and covered his mouth. "I've always wanted an A.S.S but never gotten one before."

"This is fabulous good newses for you! Your very owns A.S.S!" said Skwisgaar, his lips trembling.

"Yeah,' said Nathan, hiding his face. "The ceremony is tomorrow night. And come early. You'll want to get a good seat for your- for your- A.S.S!"

The whole band had to turn and run out after that.

Murderface was delighted. An award of his very own! Finally, Planet Piss was getting the respect it deserved.


	15. Making it Over

Murderface straightened his bowtie. The band had helped him choose his outfit for the awards ceremony, and they did a good job- he looked almost dashing. He studied his face in the mirror. It was his same old face, ugly, ugly. But someone had seemed to like it- once. He shifted his expression as though her were looking at her and something altered in him. He would never be handsome, but he looked- ok, approachable. And the tuxedo seemed to straighten him out; he didn't look so disordered. He imagined her seeing it for the first time, and her being impressed. And his features changed again, he was smiling, genuinely, a light coming from her whole countenance. He wasn't so ugly then. Someone could even love him. He no longer cared what she had done- if only he could see her again.

When he arrived at the arena, he was guided immediately backstage. He had expected to sit in the audience, but a small man with a clipboard told him that he would arrive from the stage to accept his award. He mumbled over and over, practicing his speech. He didn't have the best memory- too many head injuries.

The powerful light emanated from the audience and he couldn't make out a single person, but he could hear cheering and murmuring. Then a giant screen lit up with his face and name on it, and spinning pictures of a small statuette, and he knew his time had come.

* * *

Regan sat frozen at her computer, her body trembling. Leila was nowhere to be seen. They had a similar work ethic and Leila had never missed a day- never. Regan mumbled a few words to herself, and toyed with her necklace. What would she do if the alarm went off?

The other women turned to the empty seat, and whispered to themselves, and Regan felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She didn't dare ask where Leila was, and she didn't dare get out of her seat to look for her. But when Facebones announced the coffee break, she shot out of her chair, half-limping and half running. She dialed Leila several times, but it went straight to voicemail.

She made for the staircase, but their usual spot was empty. Regan flung off her hood. Clinging to the rail for support, she panted and pushed herself up the stairs.

"Leila," she said softly, but then panic overtook her and she heard herself calling her name.

"Leila, where are you?" She cried out, and it echoed through the empty stairwell. She pulled herself higher and higher, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Leila might be dead, and she would be next.

At the next landing she paused, leaning over the bannister to rest.

A hand went over her mouth, stifling her scream.

She felt strong hands around her binding her wrists together, and everything went black when a bag, heavier than her Klokateer hood, fell over her head.

They had taken her, and it was too late to cry for help.

* * *

Regan gasped as a fierce light shone into her eyes. She didn't know how long she had been in darkness, shuffled down endless corridors. She had sucked in air through the coarse canvas bag, and mentally steeled herself against any terrors in store. She was a trained Klokateer- she could handle it, and much worse. Regan didn't like being lonely, or being laughed at, but had a great store of courage. If only, by some chance, they wouldn't get their hands on the necklace, or know what it was. She had to find a way to destroy it.

She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the light. Her mouth fell open,when she saw the four smiling faces of Dethklok- minus Murderface.

"What the fuck do you want?' She asked hoarsely.

Pickles the Drummer patted her on the shoulder. "Sorry about that lady, hope we didn't scare ya."

She coughed fiercely.

Nathan was also coughing. "You sick too?" he asked, a tissue pressed to his nose. "There's been this brutal cold going around. Some nasty shit."

Her mouth fell open.

"What do you want with me?" she hissed.

"To hangs out!" said Toki.

"What?" she asked.

"We just wants to pal around and be friends." There wasn't anything sinister in his voice- this was Toki after all. She almost believed him.

"You don't want to hurt me, then?"

Toki gasped. "Hurt you, Eileens? How could you thinks that?"

"Sweet lady like you? Nah, fek no!" said Pickles, waving his hand.

"Then why the fuck did you do that to me?" she screamed, her voice cracking. This was Dethklok, but she was seriously pissed off.

"Uh…yeah," continued Nathan. "We found it's a good way of surprising people."

"They dids it to me!" chirped Toki. They had bound him up for her recent birthday surprise. "It ams horrible but funnys too."

They went to work unbinding her arms. She massaged the red marks on her wrists.

"It also ams top secret," said Skwisgaar. "Klokateers cants be our friends."

"So unfair!" whined Pickles.

Regan smiled slightly. It had never occurred to her that the band might want to be friends with _them_.

"Well, you are the most powerful band in the world…" she said, her eyebrows tilting.

"Yeah?" said Nathan.

"What are you afraid of then?" she asked.

The band hummed, and mumbled. None of them wanted to admit the power Charles had over them. It was best to forget about it, which they promptly did.

"So we're hanging out." said Regan. She had dropped the "my lords." She was simply too irritated with them. "What do you want to do?"

"A makeovers!" cried Toki.

Her lips curled in disgust. "Seriously?"

"Ja we wants to make you look real pretty ladies with makeup," Skwisgaar seemed genuinely excited.

"I look fine." Her face was blank.

"You've got a real specials event-" started Toki.

Nathan shoved him. "Shut up, "he growled under his breath. "That's supposed to be a surprise!" He wasn't very good at speaking quietly. He turned to Regan.

"We just think it would be…um, fun."

"Yeah, very goods materials to works with," said Skwisgaar.

Regan thought about the necklace. "You see, I can't right now. I'm worried about a friend."

"Who?" asked Nathan.

She didn't want to say too much. "A friend of mine..she…didn't show up for work today."

"Pfft," said Skwisgaar. "So whats? She's got the sicks. Look at Nathan over there."

Nathan blew his nose.

"Yeah," said Pickles. "It's been going around. We've all had it."

Regan gave a deep sigh. Maybe they were right- maybe she had freaked out for no reason. She looked up at them. Skwisgaar was squinting and making a box over her face with his fingers. Toki was dipping his fingers into various cosmetics. So they wanted to give her a makeover. She had no idea why, but this was Dethklok, and she had already asked too many questions.

"All right," she said, lifting her face to them. "Do your worst."


	16. Gristlethorn Island

_Ok, soooo...this chapter is very very...interesting! It surprised me as I was writing it. I thought it might make an interesting detour, and it fits in with the story. Enjoy! And let me know what you think..._

* * *

Leila was fully prepared for death. She had been snatched from her bedroom that morning, and it had not surprised her. She had simply taken things too far- discovered information about Mordhaus that should have been buried forever. She had hacked into the secret horde of intelligence of Charles Foster Ofdensen himself. Of course he would know, and of course there would be consequences.

Why had she thrown herself away? There had to have been a smarter way of doing it- her actions had been suicide. But now that information was out there- around Regan's neck, if her friend had the courage and intelligence and will to use it.

Leila had her doubts. Regan was too hung up on that clown Murderface for one. But Regan was the only friend she had had in years, and something about her, whether her firm intelligent features or clear way of speaking, encouraged confidence. Yet Leila sorely regretted putting her friend's life in danger. Perhaps that's why she was a loner- she saw in Regan not only a companion, but a chance to further her own ideals.

And her ideals were firmly set- a fair life for the Klokateers, discontinuing torture of employees, and though they were happy to endure trauma for their leaders, better care after their injures. Her face flamed whenever she thought of Regan's leg- it was a relic of another era, a throwback that rendered a strong and nimble young woman a cripple unable to do her job. She tongued her silver tooth, and thought now might be the time to grind it. But she had done too much to Regan. She would wait and see before calling for help.

Leila felt herself being tossed into a enclosure, and the clank of a jail door behind her. She bent her head, and scrunched her features together- her exhaustion caught up with her and she could feel the ache of in her shoulders from being pulled back, and the chafe of the manacles on her wrists.

But she had the benefit of knowing exactly where she was. She had heard the copter, and the sound of waves as the exited the craft. It was Gristlethorn Island, the special prison and interrogation center for spies. A sly smile spread over her face. They could do what they would, but still, even in her death, she could take the whole prison down.

* * *

Charles Foster Ofdensen was satisfied- they had caught her, the Brimstone Bitch. He had a leisurely breakfast and boarded the Dethcopter.

When he reached Gristlethorn Island, he found her as he expected her, huddled in the corner. A smile spread over his face. She was no longer dressed in her Klokateer uniform, but a long coarse shift. He had his Gristlethorn assistant, 6820, escort her to the interrogation room.

The room was set up like an office, with nondescript lighting, several rows of bookshelves, and dull carpeting. He spent so much time in Mordhaus, with its silver, red, and black, that he liked his personal areas to conform to his own aesthetic.

He scrunched up his mouth when he realized there was little movement in her body. Had she passed out? No, her muscles were solid, holding her upright. He would see her tremble when they questioned her.

6820 pushed her against a long post and pinioned her arms over her head. Charles nestled himself into a comfortable armchair in conservative brown leather.

"You can take off her hood now. Let's take a look at her."

"Yes, my Lord," said the Klokateer, and removed the bag.

Charles was shocked by the expression her face. It was utterly calm, not pale in the least, and she was looking him dead on. Her long green eyes seemed to reach deep into him, to know him and not fear him.

She smiled, the long curves of her lips extending. "We've only met once, Mr. Ofdensen. How nice to see you again."

"The pleasure's all mine, Ms. Brimston," he answered. "But you'll find this meeting perhaps a bit more, well, awkward."

She smirked, and adjusted herself. He could see the outline of her bust and hips through the shift. It wasn't a flattering outfit but he had to admit, she wore it well. But he felt vaguely uncomfortable, a feeling he knew from Dethklok but not from his many subordinates. A bead of sweat fell from his forehad. She was the one tied to a post, but he felt like he was trial.

He stood up so that they would be on the same level. She wriggled again, but it wasn't in discomfort- only to face him clearly. Charles wished she would stop- he could see light coloration in her breasts and he realized she wasn't wearing anything under the shift. He pulled at his collar and cleared his throat. It was standard practice, but it made him feel unprofessional.

"Are there any, em, female interrogators?" Charles asked 6820.

"No, my Lord," said the Klokateer. "There was 90534, but she complimented 645 and he sued her for sexual harassment. Her employment here was terminated."

"My God," said Charles. Maybe he had created a monster. Well, if he could deal with Dr. Rockso and his jumpsuit that left nothing to the imagination, perhaps he could just handle an attractive woman.

"Well, Miss Brimstone," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Ofdensen?" she answered politely. It was as if she were at a cocktail party and not tied to a stake.

"I have to say, I am very disappointed in your employee performance."

"Yes, perhaps my work this quarter has been sub-par."

"Hmmm," he said, honing in close. "Perhaps it was unwise to dig into my personal files."

"Do you embarrassing photos to hide, Mr. Ofdensen?" Leila smiled to herself as she imagined the great CFO in a cheesecake photo. If she wasn't planning on dying that day, she might even have considered him a very attractive man. She could see his slim, muscular build under his suit, and his face was the kind she liked, with a chiseled nose and a strong jaw.

Charles's lips curled up. He wasn't sure he liked where this was going. He turned to his assistant. "Put on the electrodes."

Leila's eyes darted as she saw the Klokateer approach with the metal case. She was used to the hood, but it bothered her that this faceless man was coming near her. She took a deep breath.

Charles watched as the man dipped his hand under his shift to place the different pads. He caught a glimpse of her thighs, and surprised himself by turning away. He could sense the fear in her eyes, but she was supposed to be terrified. That was the entire point. And yet, as the Gear's hands moved further up, he did the unthinkable.

"Stop!" He called.

"My Lord?" asked his assistant.

He leaned in toward Leila, his face brushing against her hair. She shuddered as she felt the soft moisture of his breath on her neck.

"Would you rather I did it?"

She emitted a soft cry. Why should he do it? He was her enemy.

He faced her directly. "It's not that, Leila. The Gear can't take off his hood- none of the interrogation staff can. I thought you might feel better if I did it- you could see my face."

She nodded briefly. It would be better, if only barely. He set to work, irritated by his own stupidity. _So much for terrorizing her_. He applied the electrodes to different parts of her body, trying to ignore the give of her flesh beneath his fingers. He wanted to be clinical about it, but when his hand was pressing the platelet on her nipple, he had to press several times to make it apply properly. She gave a small gasp, and he had to back away.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Ofdensen?" she asked, her voice unsteady, but with a hint of humor. She knew exactly what was wrong, and she felt it too. She had the sense that she might not die, and with that barrier broken some of her self-assurance had gone. In an effort not to touch her, he had just grazed the surface of her skin with his fingertips, and her chest heaved.

Charles turned towards her. Beads of sweat had gathered at her collarbone and her golden hair clung to her neck and the tops of her breasts.

"Nothing at all, Ms. Brimston." He paused, trying to divert his mind from the feel of her body. If he got hard now, it wouldn't seem like he was just attracted to her, but that he was _really_ getting off on torturing her. He was a professional, and that wouldn't do at all.

, he thought. I_magine_ _Dr. Rockso_.

The thought of the Rock and Roll Clown shaking his ass in his spandex suit steadied him. He was secretly grateful that he had encountered so many disgusting things in the course of his career- it was beginning to pay off.

"Ok, let's begin," he said, heading to the controllers. He still had a lot of information to get out of her. But the room really was warm- he wasn't the type to take off his jacket during business hours, but he made an exception. And she was hot too- the top of her dress had become nearly transparent.

_Dr Rockso Dr Rockso Dr Rockso_ he thought frantically, but it was too late. The erection was pressing up against his leg. Luckily he was hidden behind the controller, but his face had gone pale.

"We really can do this some other time," said Leila, smiling.

"No," he said, nearly slamming his fist on the table. His job was his life- and the security of Mordhaus was the heart of that job.

"Hmmm," he murmured, looking down at the controllers. _Best to start with some neutral part- the shoulder maybe? But that probably wouldn't hurt enough. Should he hurt someone who had just given him a hard on? Of course he should! But not because of the hard on. No, not because of that. Because it was his job._

He groaned in frustration and pulled at his hair. This was not supposed to be so complicated.

"I wouldn't touch that knob if I were you." Leila eyed him directly.

_Knob? His knob? So she knew? _Charles flushed.

"I mean the controller. It would be very unwise to touch any of them."

He looked up at her, the vexation visible in his face.

"Any why is that, my dear?" he said, almost mockingly.

"Well, for starters, this place is rigged. It's been reprogrammed."

"I wonder who could have done that," he said wryly, folding his arms.

"This place- Gristlethorn- is a man-made island," she said.

"So you know where you are?" he answered, impressed in spite of himself. "Clever girl. I outlined it myself."

"But you also planned it to be destroyed at any moment. So it's held in artificially, by levees. But I have it set so that if you use that controller, and set off enough electricity, the levees will fail, and we'll all be underwater."

He looked into her face. There was a note of humor there inconsistent with the seriousness of her claims. He knew this kind of last minute desperation- and he wasn't going to fall for it.

He pressed a button, and she received an electric shock to the shoulder. She cried out in spite of herself, and looked him dead on. It was a mixture of irritation, and horror, and black amusement.

"Now you've done it," she whispered.

His eyebrows tilted and he did it again, this time aiming for her inner thigh. She wriggled, and he was tempted to stop. This was pleasant, but he didn't like this side of himself.

That's when he felt his shoes going slightly damp. He wasn't sweating, was he? He looked down. A small pool of water had gathered at his feet.

"Holy fuck," he said.

He heard cries outside, and the alarm went off. She had been telling him the truth after all.

_They were going to die._

Leila bit down and ground her silver tooth, signaling Regan.


	17. DethOver

If you want to be beautiful, it's not the best idea to put yourself in the hands of a Death Metal band. It wouldn't have been so terrible if one member had had his way, but each had his own opinion on the matter.

Skwisgaar had a very clear idea of beauty. "If you ams wantings to be beautifuls," he told Regan, "You must have lovelies blondes hair." When it came down to it, Skwisgaar's ideal of feminine beauty looked a lot like him, and Toki told him so.

"You wants Eileens to be pretty ladys, so you makes her looking like you!"

Skwisgaars face darkened. "I ams not ladys!"

"You ams too!" cried Toki.

While the two bickered, Nathan growled. He dipped his fingers in the black corpse paint, and spread it over her eyes. His fingers were large and clumsy, plus he had some crumbs on his fingers, and Regan wasn't sure she trusted him.

"Skwisgaar," she called. "Could you give Nathan a hand with this?" This wasn't quite the look she wanted, but it had to be done right.

"Pffft!" said Skwisgaar. "That's not hows you does it." With deft fingers he tidied up the black and white. He had a way with his hands.

"But she look so darks and scary," said Toki, frowning.

"We look like this all the time. It's metal. It's brutal." Nathan dug into his bag of chips and chomped.

"No, I likes it, but not for dates."

"Date?" asked Regan.

Nathan growled, and crumbs came out of his mouth. He gave Toki a nasty glare. "Toki is uh, wishing he could, uhm…go on a date with you. But you can't, can you Regan?"

Something wasn't right. "Um, no," she said, fanning her face to help the paint dry.

Toki frowned. He had leapt out of a window the night before to escape impregnating his date. He wasn't exactly begging for another one. But his quickly face brightened. "I knows!"

He came toward her with a set of colors and a small brush. He stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth and got to work. The paintbrush on Regan's face tickled, and she tried not squirm.

"Toki, what are you doooing?" asked Nathan.

"He wants to makes her a Dr. Rockso dildos clowns," snorted Skwisgaar.

"Shut up!" screamed Toki. "Dr. Rockso ams my pals!" He finished off with a dab of glitter over his work, and ended up spilling the container on her.

"Whoops! Sorry, Eileens."

She got up and shook herself off, but it seemed like it was there to stay.

"You guys!" said Nathan. "Don't forget her hair!"

Regan had sweat under the hood, and her hair hung limply against her neck.

"Makes it blondes!" cried Skwisgaar. He was holding a box with his own face on it. "Dethkolor," it read and below his photo it were the words "Skwisgaar Sunshine."

"That's yours?" asked Regan.

"Yeah it's one of our endorsement deals. We got 'em fer the whole band," said Pickles. "Here's Nathan's- 'Explosion Ebony.' Toki has the 'Wartooth Whiskers Fu Manchu Starter Kit." I've got "The Drummer Dreads."

"And Murderface?" asked Regan, a little shy to say his name.

"He endorses the 'Murderperm.' Not one of our best sellers."

Skwisgaar was pushing his Dethkolor towards Pickles. "Not on yer life, dude." Said Pickles. "I can handle this." They all nodded. He had been in a hair metal band.

So her hair was sprayed, teased, and sprayed again. There was no mirror-they wanted to surprise her- but she could feel it lifting off her head.

"Let's get the lady dressed," said Pickles, spinning her chair around.

"Do we have clothes…for women?" asked Nathan.

"Only what's the groupies lefts," said Skwisgaar. "But they wears some pretty skankys dresses."

"Perfect!" said Pickles. They sorted through the pile of clothes. All of them smelled of alcohol.

"Like this one?" he asked Regan.

She wrinkled her nose. "Is it a top or a skirt?"

He shrugged. "It's a dress, I think."

Regan rejected everything, and they finally forced a glittery blue piece on her. She couldn't make out exactly what it was or how she was supposed to put it on. They stood there, staring at her.

"Hey guys, can I have a moment?"

They murmured, and tripping over each other, left the room.

She arranged the dress as well as she could and stepped into it, pulling it over her hips. She wrestled with the straps and finally figured out how they were arranged on her body. It was extremely tight with two huge cut outs on the side, so it basically was a bra and skirt connected by panels in the back and front.

She called them back in, and pulled back her leg so they wouldn't stare at it.

Pickles whistled. "Ah, sweetheart, ya look like a real groupie," he said.

"A true skanks," said Skwisgaar softly, wiping a tear from his eye.

It was clear they were complimenting her.

"Times for the big reveals!" said Toki, clapping his hands. She slipped on her boot and hobbled behind them to a large room with a full-length mirror.

She stared at herself in awe. It really looked like the circus had come to town and thrown up on her. She had the dark, menacing corpse paint lightened by Toki's little paintings on her cheeks- stars and flowers and a bloodied ax- or was it a bloodied head? It was hard to tell.

Pickles hadn't done such a bad job with her hair- if it were 1988. It was huge, and tied back with a gold band. Her neck and body was covered with gold that she couldn't shake off, and the dress- my god, the dress. It was _tight_. The bright blue glitter looked even tackier in the light. It pushed her breasts high and pressed firmly against her ass.

The band buzzed around her, admiring her work.. "I told you we could makes something of her," said Skwisgaar. They seemed satisfied at least, and she smiled a little. It was like Halloween.

Nathan cleared his throat. "Now, we didn't dress you up for nothing."

"I didn't think you did," she said.

"We need you, our pal, Eileen-"

"My name is Regan."

"Huh?" said Nathan.

"It was a joke, but it's not my real name. I'm Regan."

It took a while for the revelation to sink in. It was as if she had told them she was a cannibal. But they took it well.

"Ok, Regan," said Nathan. "We need you to present an award for us."

"An award? What kind of award."

"Well, this guys going to give a speech to honor this other guy, and all you have to do is walk up and hand out the award."

"That's it?" She studied them carefully.

"Yep," said Pickles.

"Why me?" she asked. This made no sense.

"Because, uh, we like you….Regan."

She didn't want to say it. "I can't go up there, with all those people." She paused. "With my leg showing."

Pickles put his hand on his shoulder. "Well I know the guy who gets the award won't care. Yer a pretty lady. And a nice one. That's it. Who cares?"

His words, so simple, so kind, touched her. She nodded to him.

"So we're on!" called Pickles. "Man, this is gonna be good."


	18. A Clear and Present Stranger

Regan stood at the edge of the stage while they announcer called out Murderface's name. If it had been anyone but Dethklok, she would think they were mocking her, sending her out here dressed like this. But they had strange ideas and bizarre ways of doing things.

The stage was glowing with various colors and a piercing light came from the audience so that she had to shield her eyes as she looked out. Was this stage fright? She had never been before a huge crowd before, even if her role was just to stand there. Or was she afraid to see Murderface again?

_No, that couldn't be it_. She was excited- she would see his face again, if only once.

Murderface held his breath as the announcer told the audience of his years with Dethklok, and the incredible artistic merit of his new project, Planet Piss. How the song 'Planet Piss' was sure to inspire a new wave of songwriting across the country, and across the world. Images of Murderface flashed across the screen in various poses, in front of different landmarks, and with countless celebrities.

"Ms. Burke," said the announcer. A woman came out, holding a statuette and wearing in a remarkably revealing dress. Murderface gaped at her tiny top that barely held in her breasts. She had bizarre face paint and wild hair, and he felt he had seen her before.

"This award goes to William Murderface," she said, hesitating for a moment. "For his original composition 'Planet Piss'."

The voice seemed vaguely familiar to him. He walked out onto the stage in a daze, waving at the cheering crowds. He stared into the face of the announcer- he knew those features- and scanned his eyes down her body to her legs. The peg-leg. It had to be. _Regan_.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered forgetting the crowd.

"I'm here to hand you- your," she hesitated, taking in his features in the brilliant light. His tuxedo fit him so well. "Your award."

He reached out his hand slowly, and their hands touched. He didn't take the statuette, he didn't pull away. His hands cupped hers.

"You weren't ushing me, were you?" he said, a note of doubt in his voice.

"Murderface…" she said, her voice dropping. "I needed your help, it's true…but when we spent that time together…"

He nodded looked her up and down. "You look…like a real shkank."

Regan's face burned under her makeup.

He smiled his goofy, gap toothed-smile. "The mosht beautiful shkank ever."

Her lips trembled, and she smiled back at him. Neither of them noticed, when the lights changed in the auditorium, revealing an empty auditorium. There was no one there. Recordings of 'oohs' and 'aahs' and laughter and applause continued to play.

The band was watching from the sidelines.

"I think it's working!" said Pickles eagerly.

"Of course it ams working," said Skwisgaar, rolling his eyes. "We makes her hots."

The statuette had fallen to the floor, and Murderface and Regan were embracing. He lifted her slightly off the ground and she laughed.

"Quick, Nathan, makes the light changes!" called Toki into a walkie-talkie.

Nathan grumbled up in the lighting booth. He hadn't graduated high school but he had learned a thing or two in theater tech his freshman year. He fumbled with the lights, setting off a green light, then a yellow, and finally a warm red that illuminated the couple.

Murderface and Regan pulled apart, and he laughed shyly. They closed their eyes and leaned it.

Regan's necklace went off in a piercing wail.

"_Leila_," she gasped, clutching her neck.

"What ish it?" asked Murderface, opening his eyes.

Regan clutched his shoulders. "Murderface, I need your help."

Murderface looked down, disappointed. _Maybe she didn't want to kiss him after all_.

"I'm so sorry, Murderface, I want to be here, so badly, but it's really important."

He hesitated and swallowed. He looked up into her face, the sinister black makeup contrasting with the flowers on her cheeks, and he smiled sadly.

"Anything, babe."

They found a computer and Murderface looked on in surprise as she opened the knight and revealed a flash drive.

"What ish that thing?" he asked.

Regan looked furiously through the files. There was a map of the waters surrounding Mordhaus, with a certain location circled. 'Gristlethorn Island.' it read. In all her flights, she had never heard of it. There were also various documents relating to brutal doings there, but she skimmed through them. She pressed her finger against the screen, and shut her eyes, memorizing the coordinates of the island.

"She's got to be there!"

"Who? Where?" asked Murderface. He had no idea what was happening.

"Murderface, I need a Dethcopter."

Murderface wasn't the quickest, but had heard what she had said about piloting the Dethcopter, that her leg wasn't capable of managing it.

"You aren't planning to fly it, Regan?"

She gritted her teeth and took his hand. "I have to!" she said.

"But your leg! You can't!"

"I'll make do," she said grimly.

Murderface sighed. He didn't like this feeling, that she was pushing him toward something. But in her wide eyes, he could read her real desperation, and knew that she needed his help. He couldn't deny her.

He picked up his Dethphone and ordered a copter.

* * *

The entire band joined them at the landing pad and watched her climb in. It was pitiful to watch her crawl up into the cockpit with her bad leg. She hadn't even had the sense to change. In spite of everything, Murderface thought she looked pretty badass in her skintight dress and corpse paint with her hands on the controls.

"I wants to comes!" called Toki!

Dethklok tried to crawl in the Dethcopter. They hated to miss anything fun. She had to physically push them out.

"It's too dangerous." she cried out.

"C'mon, we love danger!" whined Pickles.

"You might die!" she yelled.

"She means….Hamburger Time," murmured Nathan, and the band backed off. The liked dangerous fun as long as it wasn't really dangerous. But Hamburger Time was something to be avoided at all costs. Murderface hated it most of all, but he pushed forward.

"Lemme come, Regan!" he begged. "Pleash!"

"No!" she called. She was breaking the rules, perhaps helping to take down Mordhaus, but she still loved Dethklok, and she didn't want to see them hurt.

Murderface watched sadly as the blades began to rotate, and she slowly lifted in the air. The thought briefly occurred to him that he might never see her again, and he smothered it.

What amazed him most was that the award had been a sham, the recognition he had craved hadn't come at all.

And he didn't even care.


	19. Into the Abyss

The water was rushing over the floors of the Gristlethorn Island fortress. It seeped in through walls that were thought to be impenetrable and there was a deep cracking sound as parts of the foundation began to crumble. There were cries that echoed throughout the building, especially from the jail cells, where several men were held captive.

Leila felt more agony at their wailing than at her own predicament. She had meant to save them, and now she was hastening their death. But it would be worse for her; she wouldn't go by drowning. The water just had to reach the control box, and if it set off sparks, the electrodes could go off all over her body, essentially frying her. She could see her reflection in the pool of water of below her, looking, with her arms manacled over her, like a witch sentenced to be burnt.

Charles should have been running to safety, but instead he stared at her in fury, his teeth and fists clenched. It had not been cheap to build this fortress, a building off all maps that could be destroyed at any moment. She had warned him, but it was if she had wanted to go down with him. She could have tried to be more convincing, but no, she had to be a martyr.

The worst part of it was, as the work of years was being washed away and he faced the perpetrator, he had an all-consuming desire to save her.

That spirit, that energy, if only it could be properly directed…Charles, in spite of the massive damages he dealt with working with Dethklok, hated waste in his personal life. This wasn't supposed personal. But by some strange chemistry, Leila had made it very much so. And what a waste if she should simply die.

She looked up at him, and though he could tell she was scared, there was no plea: she had no expectation or hope he would save her. Her expression was blank, as though he were a non-entity, and it infuriated him. He noted the water crawling up toward the control box, and he knew as well as she did what could happen to her. He would give in to his urge to help her, but she would have to acknowledge him.

He held up a key. "Do you want me to, ahem, save you?"

She looked down, emitting a deep, loud breath as she did so, as if she were emptying her chest of air.

He felt the veins in his temples bulging. The bitch! The water had risen past his knees.

"Your last chance. Do you want me to save you?"

"Is that the master key?" she asked weakly.

"It is." He said.

She nodded, a mere tilt of the head. That had to be a yes. She cried out as he ripped the electrodes off her body, and unfastened the manacles. "You should really be more-"

"-careful." She had him pinned up against the wall. He knew the move- he was trained in martial arts and had passed down many of his skills to the Klokateers- so indirectly, she had learned it from him. She had caught him by surprise, and it would take him a moment to free himself. But she simply snatched the key from his hand, and was pushing herself through the water.

"The exit is this way," he said, pointing lamely. Then he shrugged. She wanted to kill herself, her business.

Leila forced herself through the waves. They seemed to grow denser with every step.

He had saved her- why? But there was hardly time to think about it. She unlocked the jail room door and fought to pull it open. Gasping and feeling the damp from her shift creep up her body, she followed the sound of screaming. There were two men in one cell banging on the bars, nearly crying. The other cells were empty. She freed them and the three of them pushed through to the door. The water had risen to her waist, and seemed to be coming faster.

She pointed them to the left tower. She knew the layout of the building well from her maps. "Go up those stairs!" she called, and they anxiously followed her directions. Ofdensen would be up there too.

_That would be an interesting confrontation_.

She made for the right tower, in the hopes of spending her last moments alone.

The water had risen so high that she had to almost swim to the stairwell. It took all her strength to open the door, and she threw herself against the stairs, gripping the railing to drag herself to the next landing. The water seemed to be chasing her as she ran up to two floors, and then pulled herself up a ladder to the right tower. She looked out the left, and saw the two prisoners had made it and were standing awkwardly with two of their Klokateer captors. And here she was alone. And then she turned.

_That was, alone with Ofdensen. _

Ofdensen looked at her with shock. He was still reeling from being pushed against the wall, and had no wish to confront her. Leila didn't quite look human at this moment, with her coarse wet dress that clung to every curve. Her gold hair had taken on a darker tone that her eyes were fierce, nearly feral. His body shook with unexpected desire, and perhaps with cold.

He cleared his throat and turned, facing the water.

"Well, thank you, ma'am, for destroying my billion dollar secret fortress."

"I couldn't do it alone."

"This _will_ be deducted from your paycheck."

"Perhaps now might be an opportune time to tender my resignation."

Silence, and the water was still rising, almost to their level.

She had an uncomfortable urge to thank him for her life, but he had put her through so much that the words simply would not come out. He peered at her, and then faced her. He cleaned his glasses and put them on again. They gave him an intellectual edge that no man at Mordhaus seemed to possess, and against her will she felt drawn towards him. She didn't feel cold- did that mean she was dying? Or was it the rage and ill-suited desire and rage at that desire? She looked at him calmly. Did he expect her to say something?

"So I suppose this is it," she said politely.

"I suppose so."

"Perhaps we could swim for it."

"Ahem, sharks." Ofdensen pointed downward.

She looked down and saw the dorsal fins around their tower.

"Man-eating?" .

"Naturally."

"You really do think of everything, don't you?" She pulled in towards him

"Yep." He drew a little closer.

The water continued to rise and covered their feet. They didn't have much longer.

They plunged together, their lips meeting in a desperate kiss.

She had never felt such hunger, and he responded ferociously. The water crept up their ankles, and she gasped at the cold but kept her mouth locked on his. She ran her fingers through his hair as their tongues met, and their soaked bodies press together.

They pulled apart and gasped.

She stared him in the eye.

"I really, really hate you," she said.

"I know," he said.

She tore at his shirt and he grasped her ass and they kissed again, unconscious of the rising waters, of their own surroundings. Leila's heart was beating so loud she could hear it.

Only it wasn't her heart.

It was stronger, a deep mechanical thrumming.

A helicopter hovered over them. A ladder fell, promising salvation.


	20. Surge and Rescue

Regan could barely believe she had made it this far. The only thing that had saved her was her complete knowledge of the Dethkopter inside and out. Her wooden leg was of no use to her. She had to use her hands both on the controls and the left pedal, while also keeping a clear outlook on the sky and navigating. But she had a good idea where the spot was, only there had been _nothing_ there before.

But Ofdensen was capable of witchcraft in a way, making things appear from nowhere. Regan could only hope that Leila was still alive.

She approached the coordinates and from high above, could make out little more than water. She lowered the copter and squinted, circling the location- _bodies_, there were bodies there, seeming to float on disks in the water. And there, down below- it had to be somebody, two figures perhaps. It seemed like Ofdensen and Leila, but that wasn't possible- they were clinging to each other. One thing was clear though: the water was rising, and she had to hurry.

Barely daring to leave the cockpit, she threw down the emergency ladder. The two figures lifted their arms as if in joy, and slowly began the ascent. She pulled them in, first Leila, then Ofdensen, both exhausted and dripping wet.

She looked at them in shock. She might have expected one, or the other, but both, together?

"Who, ahm, are you?" asked Ofdensen, panting.

Leila brushed her hand over her cheek. "Regan, you came," she said. And then, with a weak but sly skin, "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Regan hurried back to the cockpit. "You need to take off your clothes," she yelled to them.

The two flushed and looked at each other.

"I don't want you getting hypothermia," she said. She was in her Dethcopter, and back to ordering people around. "There are some blankets under the seats."

Ofdensen began by unbuttoning his shirt. Regan's eyes darted toward him, then away, only catching a glimpse of his firm chest, rendered pale by the cold. She then slipped off her shift, and caught him glancing as well. They pulled out the blankets and nestled into them.

Regan had a thought, necessary but almost freakishly awkward. "Now when you've warmed up a little, you may have to…" she paused. "Make body contact."

Leila opened her mouth and hesitated, but Ofdensen looked her dead-on. He hadn't lost his glasses, and his eyes flickered through them. "Strange as it seems, ahm, she may have a point. A preventative measure against hypothermia."

Leila nodded and pulled the blankets tighter around her, still stunned. "The others…" she whispered. "You have to get them."

"Who?" asked Regan, but Leila had passed out.

"Shit," said Ofdensen, and he shook her. This was no time to be falling asleep. He really should let those others die, just as an example to her, that he wasn't to be trifled with. But he only groaned.

"On the right tower, twenty meters from where you found us, there are some Klokateers and prisoners."

Regan nodded, and shifted the copter.

"And Regan?"

"Yes, Sir?" she said. Should she still call him 'Sir' when she had been deeply involved in a plot against him?

"I've underestimated you. You're one hell of a pilot."

She smiled, and dropped the ladder again. The others crawled up, eyeing either Ofdensen or Leila with suspicion.

The ride back to Mordhaus was silent. The winds began to pick up and Regan feared for her passengers.

"You'll have to take the ladder down. It will be shakey, but I'm sure you can manage."

"Regan, can't you land the copter?" asked Leila.

Regan hesitated. She didn't want to say it, but she wasn't sure. That was the most difficult part of any flight, and with her leg, and the conditions, it would be a great challenge.

"Of course I can," she answered fiercely. "It will just take me a bit. You all need to get warm- stat."

Her passengers disembarked, and she pulled up the ladder.

_Here goes nothing_.

Through the corner of her eye she could make out the small figures below peering up at her. She made several rounds, but with the wind and her awkward handling of the pedal, it was insanely difficult to manage. She felt a jolt of fright as she thought of the accident not so long before, but she smothered it under a steely resolution. Regan pushed through the wind and made a sharp turn. Unthinking, she managed the controls and jutted her leg out, forgetting that it was wooden and useless. The peg slipped on the surface of the pedal and the copter keeled over.

She let out a piercing wail as the blades gave way and Dethcopter plummeted towards the ground.

The passengers had been hurried into Mordhaus for medical treatment, and the band, hearing that Regan was still in flight, hurried out to the landing pad.

"Look at dat! It's like an air show!" called Pickles.

The band hollered, enjoying the acrobatic flips, but Murderface was silent, his features in a grimace. He remembered clearly what had happened to Regan before, and he knew she was struggling up there.

They threw themselves back as the copter came careening toward the earth, and struck, crumpling like a piece of paper. A small fire had started in the side.

"Ah shits! It ams goink to explodes!" cried Skwisgaar, running back.

"Hamburger time!" growled Nathan.

"But Eileens- I mean Regans- she ams in theres!" whined Toki.

It didn't take Murderface long to come to a decision. He had very little worthwhile in his life- nothing to care for, not much to look forward to. He was wealthy, but he had grown used to wealth and it had never done much for him. _If he died for this, if he died…_

He stopped thinking and with uncharacteristic quickness crawled through the broken door into the cockpit. The fire was picking up, and nearly touching Regan's unconscious body. Was she dead? Murderface felt his body shaking in fury. It wasn't right- it was the only thing he had really wanted. Sweat began to pour down his neck and throat, and he coughed. _It might explode. It might explode_.

He screamed as he lifted her up, feeling a ferocious stinging in his hands. He hauled her body over his shoulder, and crawled out of the cockpit to the cheers of Dethklok.

Seconds later, the DethCopter exploded.


	21. Breaking the Cycle

_Regan, you've got to stay with me. Save me. I don't have anything else…._

_Something terrible had happened-she had died, she died, but no, it was her leg! She had lost her leg!_

Regan tossed about and a layer of sweat formed on her brow.

Murderface leaned in close, taking her hand in his. Her eyes flickered and opened slowly but closed again. He gasped.

"Regan, schweetheart!" She continued to turn in the hospital bed, her lips mouthing unintelligible words. His heart buoyed with hope at her movement. She had been out a week, and though there had seemed to be little chance of recovery, Murderface had been by her side at the St. Necrophagist hospital.

She looked up into Murderface's eyes. He smiled weakly as she gazed at him. She raised her hand, but it promptly fell.

"The Dethcopter…" she murmured. "There was an accident…"

"Yesh, yesh," said Murderface. "But it'sh over now, babe. You're shafe."

Slowly, time came back to her. She had lost her leg but that had been long ago… She touched her forehead in confusion.

_Then why am I here? _ _She had flown in the Dethcopter and spun in circles. She saved her boss from a watery hole. Dethklok, the most famous band in existance, had done her makeup. She had a necklace made from a knight that contained secrets. She had stayed up all night in a room filled with canons and roses- Murderface's room- she had been with Murderface, and been pushed away from him, and then on that stage, under a warm red light, they had been together again. And she had saved Leila, and plummeted to the earth, and strong hands had lifted her from a fire_….

"Murderface," she said, her eyes now warm with recognition. "It was you- you saved me."

He pursed his lips together in an effort not to break down. It had been so hard being here, not knowing whether she would slip away from him in the night. He nodded slightly.

"But there was a fire- how are you…?"

He lifted up his other hand. It was covered in a thick bandage. She noted that the hand she was holding was hard and scaly.

"Oh, Christ," she said, leaning back into her pillow.

"Hey Moidaface! We broughts snacks!" Toki and Nathan wandered in. Toki was chewing on a chocolate bar and Nathan had his fist in bag of chips.

"Eileens! You comes back!" Toki smiled, his teeth covered in chocolate. He threw a candy bar into her lap.

"It's Regan, you douchebag!" yelled a voice from the hallway. Pickles tripped in and punched Toki, and Skwisgaar followed.

"Ah, hey you! Looks like ya made it through!" said Pickles cheerfully.

"Yeah, it looks like I did…" she answered. She was still disoriented.

"Is Charlesh around?" asked Murderface.

"Pffft," said Skwisgaar. "Most likely making fucks with that news girls in broom closets."

"Ya," said Pickles. "Or fighting her to the death. Seriously guys, I have no fuckin' idea what's goin' on." This was true on several levels. Pickles popped open a beer. "Wanna join us? Hospital drinking game! Drink once for disfigurement, twice for death!"

Regan laughed softly. _Disfigurement_…she hadn't even considered that. She didn't dare look down.

"Was I injured in any way, Muderface?" she asked weakly.

"Well, yeah, dummy, you went into a coma." Murderface chuckled.

"No, I just…" she smiled grimly. "Wondered if you I lost anything else."

"Hmmm…" said Murderface. "Nothing important. Just a leg."

Her mouth fell in horror. _But she had already gone through that…was she dreaming? Or had it happened again? She wouldn't be able to walk at all_…

"Calm down," said Muderface. "You just had thish one leg, and it wash made of wood…sho it burned up. That'sh all."

"So my peg leg is…."

"Gone." Murderface nodded, looking down.

She peered before her- there was a bump in the sheets where her leg should have been. With Murderface's help, she propped herself up, and pulled back the sheet. She gasped.

She had been fitted with her exact plan. It was a sleek metal leg of a lightweight alloy. It fitted perfectly to where her organic leg ended. She was able to flex the foot and control the toes. She had designed it, but she had never imagined it would be so beautiful.

"You're a real shyborg now, baby."

Regan turned to get out of the bed, but promptly collapsed back into the pillows.

"Uh-uh," said Murderface softly. "You have to wait and regain your shrength."

"I just want to try it so badly…did you have this done?"

Murderface put both his hands on her face, even the bandaged one. "I didn't know if you would live or…or have…. hamburger time, but I didn't want you going with that leg you hated sho much. It didn't sheem right."

Gently, she lifted her arms around him and leaned her head against his shoulder. A sense of elation overcame him; he had spent the last week with a longing digging away at his gut.

She didn't have much strength, and he guided her onto her back. She gazed at him, and he planted a soft kiss on her lips. Her mouth pursed slightly, but she didn't have the strength, and drifted back to sleep.

"Hey, this is better than a movie," said Nathan, chomping away at a second bag of Doritos.

"With Murderface as the heros." Said Skwisgaar, crossing his arms. He rolled his eyes. "This ams so dildos." There was perhaps a hint of pleasure in his voice.

"Is it true? Is Regan awake?" A lithe woman rushed into the room, and Ofdensen followed behind her. Leila's sweater was on backwards, and Charles had buttoned his shirt in the wrong order.

"Oh looks!" said Skwisgaar, plucking a piece of broom from Charles's collar. "Just as I said- ams you cleaning in the broom closet?"

Charles scowled at him, but he knew he deserved it. His behavior the past week had been lacking in, well, professionalism. That woman…

Leila was down at Murderface's side discussing all the details with him. Tears came to her eyes when she learned that Regan was fine. "And the leg?" she asked.

"I think she took it pretty well," said Murderface, folding his arms and smiling proudly. Leila sighed. She could never repay what Regan had done for her…

But now? She couldn't stay here long. She was technically a criminal, and Charles Ofdensen? Well, he was an enemy, even if looking at him made her ache with longing. She gazed up at him and bit her lip.

"Ahem," said Ofdenen. "So glad to hear that all is well here. I now have some paperwork to complete. Um, Leila, would you join me?"

She nodded. "Call me when she wakes up!" she called to Murderface.

They fled from the room and the band snickered as they ran down the hall. It was nice to see that he wasn't _entirely_ a robot.

"So I guess…uh…it will be alright," said Nathan. His Doritos were finished and he was ready to do something else.

"Yeah," said Pickles, beginning to topple over. "It looks like you guys are doing pretty good. Too-da-loo!"

Dethklok skipped out, leaving Murderface in the low light with Regan. He pulled the blanket over her shoulders and kissed both of her eyelids. It was the beginning of another long night, keeping her safe until she woke again.


	22. The Final Chapter: Lifting Off

_Final chapter! I just moved to a new town today, so time to wrap things up and start the next one! Just a note- yes, Regan does have a sense of the impending Metalocalypse- in this universe it's pretty much understood that it will happen. Thank you for reading and a special thank you to everyone who has supported me, Hawk, Ceinwen, Sailor Sky Wolf, and especially, especially Misty Day! I am considering a sequel with Charles, Leila, and a Klokateer newcomer. Let the carnage continue at Mordhaus!_

* * *

They were on the grounds outside Mordhaus, and Regan was running at a speed that marveled Murderface. He considered himself a tough guy, even with his extra pounds, but _he….just…couldn't…keep…up_. He bent over and panted. It hadn't been a good idea to try to race her.

She turned around, grinning at him. "It's working pretty well, isn't it?" She pointed to the silvery leg.

"Yeah, I'll shay!" He looked up at her. Her face was brighter than she had ever seen it, whether from the sunlight, the exercise, or simply sheer happiness. She wasn't dressed a Klokateer, but in grey jeans and a white tank, with her hair flying loose over her shoulders. The false leg was an expert work of machinery that responded to her every movement much like an organic one. It had a brilliant sheen that seemed to Murderface to reflect over Regan- or maybe it was the change in her.

It had taken her a month to recover, but it had been nothing like her former convalescence. Murderface was by her side any minute that he could spare, and the band, not wanting to miss anything interesting, had joined in from time to time, studying the quick mechanical reactions of her leg. They often called her 'The Cyborg' and she knew, coming from them, it was a compliment.

It had been Murderface she had leaned on when she took those first steps, experimenting with the false toes, and the ball of the feet, and all the intricate features of the mechanism. And he took her on walks through the yard, practicing again and again. She called him 'my nurse,' but he liked that name even less than William.

"Caretaker?" She had suggested. It was better, but he still grumbled.

"Cyborg recovery specialist?" Murderface liked that much better.

The course of her life had changed dramatically. She had already taken several practice flights, and with her leg and a small adjustment in the pedal, she was piloting better than before. Murderface loved to watch her at work in the cockpit. But he had never forgotten than vision of her, rising above them all in her skintight dress and peg leg, and the exhilaration and terror herhad felt.

After their run, they walked leisurely into his chamber. "I've got shomething to show youuuu!" he said, gripping her hand. He liked to surprise her with little things. Regan owned almost nothing, and had never really desired a lot of stuff, but Murderface was a collector and took great pleasure in finding gifts for her. Regan didn't want them for themselves, but the entire process of the surprise, and Murderface's delight in her expression was a novel experience for her. "But thish ishn't really for you…it'sh for me!"

"How sweet of you!" said Regan, pinching his side. He blushed. He was still shy about his belly, even though she had told him, time and time again, that it didn't matter to her.

"Look!" he said, pointing across the room. It was a new painting, done with vibrant red and blue highlights. She peered closely- it was a depiction of her in the cockpit of a brilliant Dethcopter. She was in corpse paint and a tight blue dress, and the blades were in a blur as she rose some five meters off the ground. Dethklok was outlined in black with their hair flying in the fierce wind. They were all staring up at her with Murderface closest to the machine.

"I had it commissioned."

Regan trembled. That night had been so harrowing; she remembered all too clearly her peg leg slipping on the pedal, and the supreme mental effort it took to keep herself in the air. But this image brought that moment to epic proportions- brought meaning to the route monotony of all the days and years preceding it.

"Murderface, it's incredible…" she said, unable to express how the painting made her ache, but also burn with pride at the same time.

"I can't forget thish moment," said Murderface. "I couldn't get the picture out of my head." He pressed all his fingers against his temples. "So I met thish really hot girl- like total babe, and sweet, and she liked me for _me_- and I don't know if you knew thish, but…" he gulped. "I used to say that chicks can't be brutal. Like, scientifically impossible."

"Murderface, most things you do aren't a secret. You aren't exactly discreet."

He pursed his lips together. He hadn't considered this. "But anyway, then I shaw thish girl decked out in corpsh paint, dresshed like, like, _wowza_-," Murderface fanned his face, and Regan bit her lip, embarrassed. "And she climbs into the Dethcopter, and grabs the wheel like thish." He demonstrated her grip, and turned the imaginary wheel back and forth making 'vroom vroom' noises.

"Murderface, I wasn't in a car!" laughed Regan, but in his enthusiasm he ignored her.

"And she'sh got this pirate leg but she doeshn't give a fuck. She liftsh that badassh thing off the ground- and I, I couldn't look away!"

Regan burst out into joyful laughter. She really _had _given a fuck, and a pretty big one at that, but she liked this depiction of herself.

"It wash so brutal-" his voice squeaked. "It physically hurt."

She came up behind him, and wrapped her arms around his heavy neck. He laughed lightly. It still felt so good when she did that, to be touched by her with such casual love. She leaned his head back and kissed his cheek.

"Well, I love it. It isn't for me?" she teased.

"Hell no!" he said. "I'm keeping thish for myshelf!"

He pulled up her legs so that she was riding piggy-back. She screamed as he ran around the room with her and then tossed her on the bed. He kissed her deeply and pressed his hands on her cheeks.

"And thish too. I want to keep thish forever."

"Greedy bastard," she said softly, and pulled him towards her in a tight embrace.

* * *

The band waited for them at the landing pad. Charles was with them, his arms folded. He felt that he had perhaps made a grave mistake, letting Regan get away with it. She had to have been a conspirator in the plot. But there had been no retribution for Leila, and she had been the instigator. And then, Regan had saved them all. It was all over anyway. _Let her go_.

There had been two weeks with Leila, weeks where she had driven him to distraction, with her teasing, her contempt, and his longing for her. He had been clear in the fact she had broken many, many rules, and he had promised to see to it she got hers in the end. But even then he had doubted his resolution, when she was so close at hand, when she could feel his warm breath against his neck and revel in her passion for him. And then she had vanished. Simply vanished.

He ground his teeth when he thought of his first response. He would track her down at any cost, he would get hold of her and he would- _rescue her_. Yes, he had believed she was in danger, and wanted to save her. But that was the wrong instinct entirely. She had to be returned, but for another purpose. Leila had rebelled against Mordhaus itself. She had taken the brand and sworn fealty, and yet she had worked as a spy, digging up information on its internal security and interrogation sector. And they had found her all right. She was in hiding with a human rights organization, and would likely strike again.

He pursed his lips and tried not to dwell on it, on his fury, his desire, or worse yet, the aching sense of loss so alien to him. It was time to see off Regan.

Murderface and Regan walked out, arm in arm. Murderface had decided to commission his own fleet of helicopters, called Murdercopters of course. They would provide tours of various Dethklok sites- concert arenas burned black with the smoke of destruction, Dethklok merchandise factories, and band member hometowns. Regan would man the fleet. It was what she asked for, and though it tore at him to be away from her, he would give it to her.

"Are you sure this ish what you want?" he said, sadly.

"It's for the best Murderface."

"I still can't undershtand. We're so happy."

"We are," she said, touching his face.

"Then why can't you jusht stay here?"

Regan clenched her teeth and looked him dead in the eye. She had thought this over countless times, and it made her heart throb, but she couldn't live here- not yet.

"Murderface, you have a great destiny in store for you- you all do. A great event is taking place, with the power of your music."

"Sho?" Murderface shrugged. "I don't care."

She sighed. He could be so dense sometimes. But then, that was because he wanted her there so badly.

"You need to be with _them_, working and making metal." It sounded so strange to say, as if she were thrusting him upon them. She wanted him for herself, but so many things had to happen first.

"With thosh ashholes? But I hate them." Murderface grimaced.

Regan laughed lightly. "I don't really believe you anymore." She took his hands and pressed them. "You're going to be the most powerful force in the world, and you need more time together. Of course I'll be back- I'll have plenty of breaks. You won't even notice- not really. And when the time comes, I'll be back. Forever. But until then…" She swallowed and looked towards the Murdercopter. "Thank you for doing this for me. It will give me a chance to be a pilot, and to prove myself- finally."

"Yeah," he said, staring at the ground. It just felt so good to help her. There was something in her, a passion for her new life that made him love her even more. But still…the cost was _so high_.

"You want a brutal girlfriend, don't you?" She nudged up his downturned chin and smiled.

"You're brutal enough for me as you are. " He returned her smile, though half-heartedly.

"I can't make you understand Murderface, not now. But you'll see- we'll all see how important this is."

Murderface had a vague sense that she was right, but still doubted. _Is she tired of me? Does she want to get rid of me? Am too ugly, too dumb, too worthless?_

"Regan- don't you love me?" he said weakly, realizing when he said it how much he sounded like a child.

She spun around and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh Christ, I do," she said, as though realizing it for the first time. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. She had a way of doing that- she was strong and she almost took the air out of him, as sturdily built as he was. But it was to him the best kind of hug, one that seemed to tell him that she couldn't get close enough to him, and couldn't bear to let him go.

"Then kiss me again," he said, and she pressed her mouth to his. He dug his fingers through her hair, feeling the weight and texture of it over his rough palms. He had never even considered someone would feel this way for him, with all of his failings. But she knew him, and seemed, with all this talk of the future, to sense his destiny better than he could, and still she loved him.

_He had to release her._

_And he had to trust her. _

He touched her face one last time, and gave her a gentle nudge. She walked backwards at first, still looking at him, and flashing him a smile, she ran towards the Murdercopter."

"Later, Cyborg!" called Nathan.

"Goodbyes Regan! Bring us souvenirs!" yelled Toki.

"From our own shows?" asked Nathan. "That's lame."

"I don't cares. I wants presents," he muttered. "Don't forgets!" he repeated.

The band cheered her on as she crawled into cockpit, this time with perfect agility. She knew Murderface loved to watch her take off, and when she had everything in order and her assistants had boarded, she gazed down at him. He had moved to the front, and was fixated on her.

When the blades had started to rotate, she blew him a kiss, and he caught it.

"_Goodbye, sweetheart_," she whispered softly. The blades moved with greater power and the copter began to lift lightly off the ground. It would need her full attention. She turned once again and mouthed the words "_Goodbye, my love_." She rose higher and found herself laughing, almost against her will. It was gentle, but left her heart and body aching. She sighed and scrunched her eyes together to hold back her tears of pleasure and pain. She rose higher and higher, into the open air to the red tinged clouds above.


End file.
